


Ephemeron

by Prince_of_Elsinore



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Bittersweet Ending, Codependency, Guilt, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Like really slow, M/M, May Parker is a good Aunt, Minor Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Minor Tony Stark/OFC, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Daddy Kink, Not Underage, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is alive but most of the Avengers are dead, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Tony Stark, Psychological Trauma, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Unhealthy Relationships, but makes bad decisions, by New York state laws at least, from canonical events, if we are getting technical about it, peter parker has post-traumatic stress disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-06-20 11:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore
Summary: "Being around Ned, Peter's reminded how out of place he is.  For Ned, the second ever appearance of aliens over Manhattan is the stuff of excited hallway chatter, ofwhere were you when—?Ned’s world wasn’t blown apart and stitched back together.  Because Ned doesn’t remember.  No one does, except the ones who were there, who fought."AKA, "Tony's relationship with Peter may be unconventional, but they’re unconventional people who have had some pretty fucking unconventional experiences."In which Tony can't stop touching Peter to make sure he's real, and Peter dreams of being in Tony's arms and not disappearing.





	1. Chapter 1

It's the looks he notices first.

When he's in the lab poring over the latest suit test diagnostics, or in the compound's kitchen hunched over the takeout F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s ordered with a Spanish textbook propped open next to his plate, or even while he's rambling about the chemical bonds in a hypothetical new web fluid formula or the  _awesome, so cool_  custom Lego set Ned has ordered, compulsively filling the silence with embarrassing inanities—he'll glance up, and see it.

He isn't sure at first what it means, if it's even anything at all and not just some trick of the light or his overactive imagination. But Peter Parker is a scientist, first and foremost. He knows how to test results for consistency and statistical significance. Set the controls, modify the variables. Observe.

Eventually, he has the data to confirm his suspicion: Mr. Stark is looking at him in a way he never used to. Before  _it_  happened. The Event. The Catastrophe. The thing that hangs in the air between them every time they step into the same room, and follows them each when they separate, like particularly dogged rainclouds.

Now Peter is certain that what he's seeing is real; the next step is to determine what it is, exactly—to parse its meaning. This requires more risk, chancing glances when Mr. Stark is sure to notice, only for their eyes to dart away from each other as though they haven't just caught the other looking.

It takes him a while to analyze what he glimpses in Mr. Stark's eyes; at first they simply look wide and blank to him. So he goes about it systematically: hypothesize and check for accuracy.

Peter runs through lists of emotions in his head, tries to match them with what he sees on Mr. Stark's face. Things start to click. So far, he has:

     1. Disbelief, closely related to  
     2. Awe, a distant cousin of  
     3. Fear, an alarming amount of it, that varies subtly between the varieties of  
          a. Panic, blood-freezing, and  
          b. Horror, gut-dropping, which elides surprisingly easily into  
     4. Sadness. No—Grief? Deep and raw, usually fresh, occasionally weary. And, unexpectedly,  
     5. Tenderness, that makes Peter feel warm both as in "and safe" and "uncomfortably so." Embarrassed, nervous. Like he's intruded on something private, that maybe has to do with…  
     6. Unidentified. As of yet. Data set incomplete.

Now: the part that some of the scientifically minded have trouble with, but which is most important of all, and where Peter excels. The part of every experiment, every discovery, that makes Peter buzz and glow as his mind races ahead of what his hands or even mouth can keep up with: Conclusion. Interpretation. Real world application. Avenues for further exploration.  _Implications_.

So: Mr. Stark looks at him as if he were a goddamn miracle, a Biblical vision. But he's also afraid—maybe afraid that that's all Peter is: an apparition, fragile, fleeting. Like if he dares to look away, Peter won't be there when he looks back. He's fond of Peter—that much Peter has been certain of since he offered him an official place on the team a year ago—but Peter is a reminder, too. Of everything he's lost.

Peter doesn't feel his usual elation at piecing together this puzzle. For once, Peter doesn't know what to do with his conclusions.

…

The second thing he notices is the touches.

Mr. Stark has always been a physical guy. Handsy, even, but selectively so. Peter always chalked it up to the man's natural assertion of dominance, a tactic for controlling interpersonal dynamics. Powerful people use touch to demonstrate their entitlement to other people's space. Peter knows this from all his years spent on the bottom rung of the ladder: smallest in the class, the nerd, the easy target. He recognizes in Mr. Stark's bearing some of the same habits of the bullies that plagued his childhood—even a hint of Flash's calculated arrogance and taunting grins. Like Flash, Mr. Stark seems to take up more space than his compact stature requires: the leg casually propped up in the backseat of the car, the arms outstretched along the side of the table as he looms over it.

Peter knows this behavior, and he knows its causes. He remembers, from his most difficult years in school, Uncle Ben's talks about bullies—that he should feel sorry for them and the insecurities at the root of their actions. Peter has always struggled with that suggestion; it rankles the sense of righteousness he's possessed since long before becoming a masked crime-fighter.

Peter doesn't like to think of Mr. Stark as a bully, exactly—though he knows many who'd disagree on that point—but he understands that the same principles apply. That's why, when he first met Tony Stark—genius, Avenger, playboy, philanthropist—he did his best not to let the heavy hands on the shoulder, the slaps on the back, go to his head. He understood them as projections of power, not indicators of affection, and so he tamped down on the warmth that rose in his chest with every faux-casual brush of a hand or arm.

But these touches are different.

They seem… searching, almost. Uncharacteristically timid: fingertips grazing between his sharp shoulder blades as though unsure they're allowed to linger there—strange, for a man who lives by the maxim "better ask forgiveness than permission" and usually skips the forgiveness part.

Peter notes that the touches often come after the looks. At any opportunity: simply standing next to Peter and talking to him is a good enough excuse for Mr. Stark's hand to find his elbow, or the center of his back.

Mr. Stark always withdraws quickly enough, but Peter has the distinct sense that it pains him to pull away. He wishes he could tell him that it's alright, he's allowed to touch—it feels oddly empowering, the idea of giving Tony Stark  _permission_ —that Peter would welcome it, but he doesn't trust his words or his voice to convey the message properly. He relies on his body instead, relaxing into every gentle press of the palm, but never enough to scare Mr. Stark off. Because what if Peter has misjudged? What if he's reading into it too much? It wouldn't be hard to do, given that his enhanced senses can make any subtle touch burn like a brand if he focuses on it hard enough. Mr. Stark, on the other hand, may not even be conscious of what he's doing.

Peter's not sure if that would be better or worse.

…

"I just, feel like I could be doing more, y'know, Mr. Stark?" He feels like a broken record, clasping his hands out in front of him the way he does when he's nervous. "Considering…"

"Considering?" Mr. Stark doesn't look up from the computer chip he's soldering.

"Considering… stuff I've done," he finishes lamely. Peter can't bring it up directly; he knows Mr. Stark can't hear about it any more than Peter can talk about it. They've each built their private bunkers in their brains to cordon it off.

Mr. Stark sniffs, leans closer to the iron. "Stuff, huh? Focus on the schoolwork, kid. That was the agreement."

"Yeah, well… what Fury doesn't know can't hurt him," Peter mumbles.

"I was more talking about your scarily attractive and plain scary-when-she-wants-to-be aunt."

Peter shrugs. "What Aunt May doesn't know can't—"

"You sure you wanna finish that sentence?"

He's looking at him, finally, over the rim of the magnifying glass. A single arched eyebrow is all it takes to cow Peter into backtracking.

"Uh, yeah, no…" Peter breaks off, looking down at his scuffed Nikes. "Right. I'll be—" he jerks his head towards the door of the lab—"in the kitchen, doing my Spanish… if you need me. Um, not that you need me, to finish that, just—I mean, if you want an extra pair of hands—I mean, I know you have Dum-E for that and all, but just, if you—"

"What are you doing Wednesday?"

The question comes so far out of left field that Peter doesn't process it for a moment. Mr. Stark is still huddled over, intent on his work.

"After school, you got uh, what, debate club? What is it you do, model UN?" Mr. Stark waves his hand, as if reaching for an answer.

Peter narrows his eyes, wondering why Mr. Stark is pretending he's forgotten what Peter's extracurriculars are when Peter knows for a fact that Mr. Stark has had his schedule memorized since he gave him his first suit.

"Academic decathlon."

Mr. Stark snaps his fingers. "That's the one. Right. You got practice on Wednesday?"

"No," says Peter quickly.

"Didn't quit, did you?"

"No, but, I'm just an alternate. I don't really have to be at every—"

"Alternate?" Mr. Stark looks up again, aghast. He stands and strides towards Peter. "What kind of bozos in charge made you an alternate?" He crowds into Peter's space and jabs a finger into his sternum. "You are the brightest kid on that team, guaranteed. No way you don't deserve to be first-string."

Peter's face heats up and he drops his eyes from Mr. Stark's intense gaze, to where his finger still rests heavy on his chest.

"That's a gross exaggeration, Mr. Stark, and anyway, I'm only doing it because it was one of Aunt May's demands. I—I asked to be an alternate—"

"Asked, did you?" Finally Mr. Stark removes his hand. "C'mon, Pete, you can't just let all the school stuff drop because Fury had a press conference. It's your future—"

"That's  _not_  my future." Peter doesn't know where he finds the strength to meet Mr. Stark's eyes with a glare of his own. "You know it's not."

And there it is. Mr. Stark stares back at him with that  _look_.

Peter wets his lips, cataloguing in his head: fear. "What if Fury calls me in?" Sadness. "What am I supposed to say—'oh, I can't save New York today, I have  _academic decathlon_?'"—Concern? No, what is it _—_ "I'm an Avenger, now, Tony."

Mr. Stark blinks in surprise a second before Peter does.

"O-oh, M-Mr. Stark. Sorry," he stutters, a new flush of embarrassment creeping over his features.

Mr. Stark collects himself quickly and shrugs. "No, I don't mind. Like you said, you're an Avenger now. We're teammates. Teammates should be on a first-name basis." He doesn't meet Peter's eyes.

"Oh. Right. Okay." Peter bites his lip. He's not sure where that came from; the man was always "Mr. Stark" in his head, but somehow it slipped out.

"Tony," he says, experimentally. It feels strange now.

"So, Wednesday?" Tony continues, as if there had been no interruption.

"Oh, right. Uh, no, I'm free. Really. No decathlon stuff or anything."

"Well, if you wanna get some more work done on this thing—" he jabs his thumb at the workbench behind him—"before next weekend, why don't you swing by my place after school?"

"W-wait, really? Your place? Like, your home?"

"One of them. The Upper East Side address, to be exact." Tony's hands are shoved in his pockets. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet, eyeing Peter for his reaction. "Only if it's not gonna interfere with homework," he adds quickly.

"Yes! I mean, yeah, of course. Yes, Mr.—Tony."

Another raised eyebrow. "Just Tony, kid."

"Right. So, you got, like, equipment, at your apartment…" Peter gestures widely at the various holographic interfaces on which they've been working.

"'Course. It's got a workshop. Nothing like this," he jerks his head over his shoulder, "but, it's functional."

…

Tony Stark's home workshop is far more than functional.

Peter remains wide-eyed for most of the tour—not so much for the tech, since he's seen it all and more on his weekends upstate, but for the feel of the space. If the compound's laboratory is a state-of-the-art facility shared with some of the brightest scientific minds in the world, then this is the personal playground of a maverick genius. It looks more like a mechanic's garage—a very sleek, outrageously well-equipped mechanic's garage—and smells like engine grease. There are at least half a dozen car motors in various states of disassembly lying about, which Tony dismisses as pet projects with a careless wave of the hand. A few more high-tech pieces lie scattered haphazardly over the workbenches. Peter thinks he recognizes some Wakandan nano-tech on one, and hopes to steal a closer look later.

Even with all the sights and smells for him to drink in, what holds his attention is the large, warm hand that rarely strays from his back as Tony guides him around his workspace, and then the rest of the penthouse for good measure.

…

Peter attacks his schoolwork with a ferocity that makes Aunt May content, if a little concerned that he leaves so little time for a social life anymore, what with the extra hours he's been putting into patrolling. At least she can't complain that he's not prioritizing academics when he mentions he'll be at Tony's again after school.

If she notices the switch to a first-name basis, she doesn't mention it.

Peter notes, with a satisfaction he himself doesn't quite understand, that Tony has taken to the hand-on-back measure even when not in tour-mode; he uses it to guide Peter into the workshop when he arrives at the apartment, or to bring him over to his workbench to show him what he's working on, or out into the massive steel and black marble kitchen for a snack break. Peter is sure it's the new kind of touch, not the old power-play type—it's gentle, almost questioning, but just firm enough to be reassuring.

If Peter makes certain he's always stripped down to one layer of clothing when he arrives at Tony's, he can't help it. The heat of Tony's palm is so much more palpable through only the thin cotton of a t-shirt, rather than muffled through a hoodie or jacket. He can feel the outline of every finger, sense almost the exact shape of his hand. Peter wonders how much clearer it would be if it were pressed against his bare skin instead. It's a purely scientific line of inquiry, of course.

He finds himself thinking a lot about Tony's hands. The calloused fingers, the short, manicured nails, the thick tendons that make them look so strong.

That's as far as his thoughts usually get before he shakes his head, repeating his internal mantra of "don't be weird, Peter," and diving into the nearest distraction.

…

"Forget where the front door is, Parker?" quips Tony as F.R.I.D.A.Y. opens the balcony door on his command.

"Sorry, Tony," Peter replies, not sounding sorry at all as he breezes past him into the palatial white and beige space that passes as the penthouse's living room. He tugs off his mask and pushes back his hair. "Just, I was already in the suit and, y'know, webs are quicker than the elevator—"

"Uh-huh. You know, we don't really need to be attracting attention to the location of my private residence with Spider-Man using my balcony as his personal landing pad. You know the twittersphere eats that stuff up—"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, Mr. Stark, it won't happen again!" Peter rushes, more properly repentant.

A blush creeps up his neck as he notices the name slip a moment too late. He still has a tendency to resort to "Mr. Stark" when the older man asserts his authority.

Tony doesn't seem to notice, though. His brow is furrowed as he stares at Peter, a glimpse of the  _look_  in his eyes—and that's odd. What set it off this time, Peter wonders.

Tony glances away and nods curtly, tightening the belt of his house robe with a deep sniff. "No, it's fine. Who am I kidding. All the paparazzi know where I live anyway. So, what brings you to my neck of the woods, Spider-Boy? Thought we said Thursday."

Peter grimaces at the nickname—definitely a deliberate jab, so much for not noticing the "Mr. Stark"—and crosses his arms. Instead of an answer: "Are those your pajamas?" he shoots back, not without a hint of judgment.

Tony doesn't look too good. His hair is disheveled, the stubble on his cheeks more than a 5 o'clock shadow. He looks like he hasn't slept.

"Have you been in them all day?" Peter presses.

"Don't take that righteous tone with me, Parker. Doesn't suit you." Tony turns and strides towards the kitchen. "I invoke my bachelor's right to wear whatever I like, whenever I like, while on the premises of my pad. Anyway, day's just getting started."

Peter follows him. "Uh, Tony, you do know I got out of school like, an hour ago?"

Tony pauses where he's filling a water glass and squints into the distance, as if performing long division in his head.

"Huh," he says softly. He turns to look at Peter. "You—haven't answered my question. What are you doing making surprise balcony calls? And how, by the way, did you even know I would be here on a workday afternoon? A highly unlikely event, might I add, you got lucky—"

"Well, I didn't know, but I figured it was a safe guess, considering what Fury's said—"

"What has Fury said?" Tony asks sharply.

"Uh, y'know, just that he's trying to keep you busy because he thinks you spend too much time cooped up in here—"

"Oh, does he now?"

"—and you've been neglecting your duties at S.I. and the only time you leave your house is for our weekends upstate—"

"Alright, point taken. Jeez, know when to put a cork in it, Parker. Since when are you so cozy with Fury anyway," he mutters, pulling another glass from the cupboard.

"Want something?" Tony quickly steers the conversation into safer territory. "Water, kale smoothie…"

Peter pulls a face. "Uh, water, thanks."

Tony fills the glass and shoves it in his direction. "Gonna have some coffee myself."

He turns towards his espresso machine—the type Peter has only ever seen in coffee shops, never in a private residence—and begins packing the grounds into the portafilter. "Can I make you something? Cappuccino, latte? You like any of those bougie drinks, Parker?"

"Uh, I don't really like coffee," he answers distractedly, eyes trained on Tony's precise movements. His hands have the confidence of muscle memory, tendons straining as he locks the portafilter into place and begins pulling the shot. Peter is reminded of the way Tony looks while absorbed in an engine.

"Eh, that's probably for the best. Shit's expensive, unless you can make it at home."

It's Peter's turn to raise an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a problem for you. Why do you have all this stuff?"

Tony is pouring milk into a pitcher now. It's grayish, obviously not the kind from cows that normal people drink. "I learned a long time ago, Peter, that if you want something done right—" he inserts the steaming wand into the pitcher and turns the knob—"best do it yourself."

Peter watches in silent admiration as Tony finishes constructing his beverage. It looks smooth, shiny and nutty brown. Peter thinks it's an awful lot of work to produce something so small, though.

"What is it?"

"Flat white."

"It's not white."

"And a red delicious is a mealy, bland, sorry excuse for an apple, and Long Islands are most definitely not iced tea, though they tend to have similar effects on bladder control. Bourdain called it; the culinary world is full of lies, Parker."

Tony brings the cup to his lips and sips delicately, licks the foam from his lips and the bristles of his mustache.

Peter realizes he's staring and drops his eyes. "Can I try it?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.

"No," says Tony simply, setting down the cup on its saucer. "This is  _my_ flat white. I'll make you your own."

"But what if I don't like it?"

Tony shrugs. "I'll toss it."

"But that's such a waste!"

"Peter—" Tony catches his eye, "it's a couple ounces of espresso and oat milk. It's fine. Really."

Peter relents. It isn't the first time they've disagreed over Tony's tendency to see material things as utterly disposable. It physically pains Peter to see perfectly good food go to waste, or usable electronics get scrapped, but he knows to choose his battles carefully. At least he convinced Tony to donate some fully functional, two-year-old computers to a community college when he was on the verge of chucking them, too ("a gift for the dumpster divers, like you used to do, right, Pete?").

It's only a minute before Tony is sliding a second cup along the counter towards him.

He takes a tentative taste and struggles not to grimace at the bitterness of the espresso, highly aware of Tony's watchful gaze. He reaches for the sugar bowl and spoons in one, two, three, four lumps. Tony's eyebrows rise higher with each one.

Peter takes another sip and hums. Now that the liquid isn't too bitter to stomach, he can appreciate the surprisingly creamy texture of the foamed oat milk.

"It's not bad," he decides.

Tony scoffs. "Because you added enough sugar to fuel a horde of five-year-olds in a bouncy house."

Peter blushes, suddenly feeling childish and wishing he could take his coffee black and his espresso strong like Tony does.

"Now," Tony brushes past Peter, cup in hand, "why don't we drink these in the living room like civilized folk, and you can finally tell me what you're doing here, other than ruining my single origin espresso."

Peter trails after him sheepishly and makes towards the long leather couch, but is stopped by an outstretched hand.

"Ah-ah, no super-suits on the sofa."

"What?"

"I do not need whatever grime of Queens might be stuck to your spandex on my Ceccotti." Tony places himself resolutely between Peter and the couch, backing him away.

Peter is mildly offended. "What, like you've never sat on the couch in your armor?"

"Sure I have, after it's spick and span, not after I get back from fighting the bad guys. I perfected the cleaning system with the Mark 45."

"I thought you said nothing's ever perfect." It's an excuse Peter has heard a hundred times as Tony insists on fine-tuning the same projects again and again. The ever-evolving Spider-Man suit, for one.

"Correction—some things are perfect, but that doesn't mean they can't be more perfect. Anyways, not the point. The point is, if this is gonna be a why-don't-you-sit-down sort of talk, you need to change. Come on."

Tony sets their drinks on an end table before leading Peter down the hall. He glances at him thoughtfully.

"Come to think of it—" his hand catches Peter's bicep—"maybe that'll be the next update. How'd you like a self-cleaning suit?" He rubs his thumb thoughtfully over the material.

Tony's handprint feels hot on Peter's skin, even through the suit. He clears his throat. "Yeah, 'd be great if it means I'm allowed to sit on the couch," he mutters.

"Good, good," says Tony distractedly. His hand smooths up from Peter's arm to rest at the base of his neck, guiding him down a flight of stairs to the master bedroom.

Peter's breath catches in his chest as he stops in the doorway. Tony takes no notice and continues inside, heading for a mirror-paneled wall that turns out to be the entrance to a walk-in closet. Or maybe "wardrobe room" would be more apt.

Peter's been to Tony's several times now, but he's never seen the man's bedroom. It's how Peter imagines stepping into a cavern would feel; the ceiling is even higher than in the living room, the light soft and natural from a window that takes up the entire wall opposite. It looks towards Queens, over rooftops and water tanks and the East River reflecting a gray October sky. The plush carpet beneath Peter's feet is the same color as the clouds.

He notices a bed off to the side; he's sure that, in a normal room, it would look gigantic, but here it's dwarfed by the space.

"Parker." He starts at Tony's voice coming from the closet-room.

He trots over and Tony emerges with a t-shirt and sweatpants in hand, which he shoves unceremoniously into Peter's arms.

"Try these for size. I'll be in the living room."

He leaves and Peter changes quickly. The clothes hang off his frame, and Peter is reminded how much smaller he is than Tony, despite their similar heights. Tony is built in a way Peter is sure he'll never be, super strength or no.

He allows himself a few more moments to take in his surroundings. It's impressive, being in an interior space so imposing. He can't help but think, though, with the dark walls and sparse furnishings, that it's cold for a bedroom. He remembers that this is the apartment Tony moved into with Pepper Potts, before she left for "time to think" after he boarded an alien spaceship without hesitation. Maybe the room felt warmer when she was still around.

Peter pads back to the living room, the suit bundled in his arms. When he comes through the entryway Tony straightens up quickly from where he's been adjusting a throw pillow. He seems about to say something, but stops, eyes caught on Peter.

Peter shifts self-consciously as that still indecipherable  _something_  flashes across Tony's face.

Tony tears his eyes away and clears his throat. "Glad they worked out okay," he says lightly. He beckons him over to the sofa with a magnanimous gesture and settles himself against the throw pillow.

Peter places his suit carefully over the wooden arm of a chair and gingerly sets himself down near Tony. Not too near, but close enough to touch if he reached out.

Tony hands him his coffee and picks up his own. He's seated almost entirely sideways, one elbow over the back of the sofa, legs crossed towards Peter. Peter feels the intense scrutiny of the position and keeps his hands clutched around the cup in his lap.

"Alright, out with it."

Peter must look lost, because Tony clarifies with an eye-roll, "What brings you to my humble abode?"

"Oh, uh, well, you said, last weekend, I should let you know how the debugging seemed to be working out?"

Tony nods expectantly.

"Well… it's great! Haven't noticed any problems." Peter gives a small shrug.

Tony's eyes narrow. "…That's it? That's what warranted this unscheduled rendezvous, chez vous?"

"Um, well," Peter swallows, "I actually noticed today that, uh, the left web-shooter is sort of… sticky?"

"It does shoot an adhesive, Parker. I would think so."

"No, I mean, like, there's a delay? Just a little bit?" He bites his lip and looks sideways at the man.

Tony drains his cup and sets it on the table so he can reach over and pull Peter's left arm towards him, where he's still wearing the web-shooter.

Peter lets Tony hold his forearm in a firm grip as he fiddles with the device. He triggers the release mechanism and sends a string of webbing sailing across the room to land on the far window.

Tony gives Peter a dubious look. "Seems fine to me." He doesn't let go of his arm.

"Oh, well, it's sort of on and off. Like, maybe 40% of the time?"

"Hmm. 40%, huh? Alright, leave it with me, I'll take a closer look."

"Well, I mean, we could look at it together, right?"

Tony catches his gaze. "Then bring it by Thursday, like we said. Can you deal with it for 48 more hours, or is it really—" Tony's eyes narrow suspiciously "— _that_  serious?"

"Um, no, yeah, yeah, I can, I can deal." Peter swallows again and looks resolutely straight ahead. Tony's hand is still on his arm. It occurs to Peter that this might be the longest Tony has ever touched his bare skin. Not that that's an especially noteworthy thing.

Tony lets go with a sigh, shifting back slightly. "You sure some glitchy gear is all that's bothering you, Pete?"

"What? Yeah, yeah that's all." Peter finishes his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.

"Really? 'Cause your aunt is concerned about how much time you've been spending out patrolling. It's more than what we agreed on."

Peter wrinkles his nose. "You talk to Aunt May?"

"No; Aunt May talks to Fury, Fury talks to me. And, hopefully, you talk to me…" he leads. "C'mon, Pete, you gotta work with me. You know I'm not good at this sort of thing."

Peter shrugs. "There's nothing to tell, really, Tony. I like to keep busy. Just trying to make sure I don't fall down on my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man duties. May's probably just worried I don't get enough sleep. But I can handle it," he insists.

"Right. You can handle it," agrees Tony easily. "What about the Borg cube?"

"The what?" Peter frowns at Tony. The man does look a little haggard, but Peter didn't think he was that out of it.

"The Borg cube, custom Lego set. You and Ned finish it yet?"

Peter blinks, his mouth hanging slightly open. He had completely forgotten. He must have told Tony about that over a month ago, just in passing. Ned gave up bugging him about coming over to build it a couple weeks ago.

"Oh, uh, not yet."

"Why not?"

"Well, I got… homework? And Avengers, and patrols…"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Right. That's what I'm talking about, Pete. Your priorities are askew."

Peter barks out a laugh. "In what world does the Lego Borg cube come before Spider-Man?"

"In the world as it should be."

Peter purses his lips. "Yeah, well, a lot of things aren't as they should be."

Tony looks away at that. He seems distant for a moment, then shrugs. "I dunno. You're pretty alright, kid."

Peter looks up at him doubtfully.

Tony's head lolls back towards him. He regards him for a moment. "God, look at you; you're so—"

Tony cuts himself off, staring at Peter. Peter is caught in his brown eyes, studying them as they study him. There it all is: the searching, the loss, the reverence, the—yearning?

Tony smiles tightly. "Wish I'd been like you at your age."

That catches Peter off guard. "You… wish you were a teenager from Queens living in a 900 square foot apartment?"

Tony snorts. "You've got an aunt who loves you, friends who care about you, and a good head on your shoulders." He punches his arm softly.

A huff of laughter escapes Peter's lips. "Yeah, great. A good head."

"I'm serious, kid. You know up from down, right from wrong. Takes some of us a lot longer to get there. Just, uh," he looks away again, his right hand going to rub distractedly at his left arm, "don't waste it."

A rare moment of silence settles in, where Peter is free to simply look at Tony. He seems suddenly ten years older and miles away, even though Peter could reach out and touch him. Peter wants to do just that, he realizes, but his arms feel leaden at his sides. His chest aches.

As quickly as it came, the moment is gone. Tony turns to Peter with a smirk and brings a heavy hand down on his knee.

"Build the Borg cube, Pete."

He squeezes, lets go and stands. "Let me get these—" He leans over to collect the empty cups and takes them to the kitchen.

Peter stares at the spot Tony vacated on the couch, wondering if he's been acting ungrateful, if Tony's disappointed in him for that. After all, Peter got back all of the people who are important to him after the events of last summer.

Tony lost nearly everyone.

Something shiny catches Peter's eye from behind the throw pillow Tony had been seated against. Peter frowns and reaches for it. His fingers close around a familiar shape.

A bottle of Jack, mostly empty. Peter's stomach twists into a knot.

"So, kid—" Tony has reentered the room, but he falters when he spots the bottle in Peter's hands.

Peter's fingers tap along the neck.

"Is this why you asked me to change? So you'd have time to hide it?" he asks softly. A thought occurs to him with a sickening lurch. "Just how many bottles did you have to clean up, Tony?" He looks at the man, eyes hard.

"Hey. Don't start with me, kid. I don't need a lecture from you, too," warns Tony, finger raised.

Peter lets out a frustrated breath, rising to his feet. "Why, because you're the only one allowed to self destruct when things are hard? So maybe I've been patrolling more because being in the suit is the only thing that keeps my mind off it, when I'm not in the lab or the workshop. But that's a lot better than sitting around in a bathrobe drinking all day."

"Going out looking for trouble is  _not_  better." Tony's voice is sharp. "You could get hurt—"

"I'm not looking for trouble, Tony! I'm just doing my job!"

"—believe me, I know what that sort of recklessness leads to—"

"I'm not you!"

Tony looks stricken. Peter's chest heaves. His breathing is suddenly too loud in the silent room.

Then Tony chuckles bitterly. He wraps his arms around himself and nods.

"Right. My mistake. No, Parker,  _this_  is me." He points to himself, his voice low and tight. "The real Tony Stark. You show up uninvited, you catch me off guard, this is what you get." He spreads his palms and stalks towards Peter. "The big, fat, truth. Not so pretty, huh? Not so glamorous. You don't like it, you can leave. I didn't ask you here, and I didn't ask for 'constructive' criticism from a  _teenager_. You know the way out." He nods towards the balcony.

Peter can't meet his glare. Instead, he focuses on the bottle still clutched in his hands. He feels small, almost as small as he did that day on Governor's Island, after the Staten Island ferry fiasco.

"I'm—I'm sorry," he finally chokes out, willing himself not to cry.

Tony's shoulders tense.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and it's almost a sob. He bites his lip, but can't help the tear that escapes down his cheek. He curses himself for not being stronger, for crying in front of the man  _again_.

Tony's breath hitches. His hand reaches out but aborts the gesture and falls to his side.

"I d-didn't mean—"

"No, Peter, don't—you don't have to apologize. Please don't." He turns away, rubs a hand over his mouth.

Peter frowns. "But—"

Tony faces him again, gesturing to himself. "I'm sorry, okay? You have every right to be angry." His expression is carefully blank.

Peter blinks his wet eyelashes in confusion. "No, I shouldn't have—"

"Peter, you don't apologize to me, you understand? I take it back. I overreacted. It's just—" He shrugs. "I've heard it all before. And, well—" He gestures vaguely to the room, as if to indicate any half-drunken bottles therein, and takes a deep breath he doesn't let out. "What can I say?" he finishes with a grimace.

Peter looks at Tony, at the pleading in his eyes that he won't voice aloud. It surprises Peter. He's never witnessed Tony Stark admit fault so readily.

Still, Peter wants to apologize. He hates knowing what Tony does when he's alone, but he's not one to judge. Maybe Tony is being hypocritical, but Peter knows, deep down, that the man only wants what's best for him. Peter just wants what's best for Tony, too.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, eyes on the carpet. "I just… I'm just worried about you," he admits, and glances up. Tony looks devastated.

"It's not your job to worry about me, kid."

"But—who else is gonna?"

Tony's mouth tightens; his eyes become more guarded. "This isn't the first time I've lost people."

Peter bites his lip. He wants to say more, but he can't think how to make Tony listen.

"I think it's time for you to go home, Pete," Tony says, gentle but firm.

The conversation is over.

Peter changes back into his suit, leaving the borrowed clothes in Tony's massive closet. When he returns to the living room, Tony is standing with his back to him, looking out the far window where Peter's webbing still clings.

Peter's chest aches again. All he'd wanted was an excuse to return to the relative peace and companionship of the workshop, but now he feels he's only made things worse.

"I'm, gonna go…" He pulls on his mask.

"'Kay. Bye." Tony doesn't turn around.

Peter hangs his head and makes his way to the door.

"Peter—"

He turns. Tony looks over his shoulder at him.

"Swing safe out there."

"I always do."

"Wouldn't want that sticky left web-shooter to throw you off." Tony's lips quirk almost imperceptibly, but Peter catches it.

He allows himself a small smile. "Yes, sir."

As F.R.I.D.A.Y. lets Peter out onto the balcony, he hears behind him, in a carefully casual tone, "See you Thursday."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was blown away by the response to the first chapter--thank you so, so much to everyone who commented! You all put a smile on my face. So please, don't be shy to share your thoughts :)  
> Future updates probably won't be this fast, since I already had a good deal of this chapter written and life is getting busier, but I will try to keep them fairly regular.

Tony often thinks about the way Peter looked at him after Siberia. After he'd lost Steve, the Avengers, Pepper—the first time.

His best friend was in the hospital and he, Tony, was responsible. At the time, Tony didn't know how bad Rhodey's injuries might be. He had peeled himself off the concrete of the Soviet bunker, suit barely functional on its backup power, and dragged Steve's shield to the jet. He felt empty for the entire return trip, not even the promise of Pepper's forgiving smile at the end to look forward to.

But when he got back, with a numb left arm and makeup over the bruises on his face, Peter was waiting. Tony had almost forgotten about the kid, with all that had happened. He was ready to tell Happy to drive him home and be done with it, but then he caught the look in the kid's eye.

Peter didn't know what had happened. Not the details, anyway. He didn't yet understand how much Tony had just lost. To Peter, he was still  _the_  Tony Stark, billionaire genius yadda yadda, still Iron Man. He still looked at him with wide brown eyes, so eager to please, so full of reverence. Like he wasn't the biggest fuckup in the whole goddamn universe. Like he was still a hero.

It wasn't Tony's finest moment, but he let himself soak it up. He figured he deserved at least that—something just to postpone the return to his crushingly empty life.

He rode in the backseat with Peter all the way to Queens, feigning only casual interest in everything the kid said or did. In reality, he was basking in it, letting the kid's attention and enthusiasm wash over him, keep at bay the dark thoughts oozing through the back of his brain— _you break everything you touch—_

Peter's face, when he told him to keep the suit. Like he was actually fucking  _grateful_  to Tony. Like Tony was the best thing to ever happen to him. Tony was fairly sure Peter was the only person in the world who felt that way just then, so of course he had to get in the kid's space, lean in for just a moment, let him bring an awkward arm around his back…

It's the way Peter still looks at him, sometimes. When they're in the lab together, and Tony shows Peter a clever bit of coding, or breaks down his most recent idea on the practical applications of nano-tech; things that most people wouldn't begin to understand, but that make Peter's face light up because Peter isn't most people. Peter speaks his language. It reminds Tony of when he and Bruce—

No, don't think about Bruce.

He finds himself actively trying to impress Peter, sometimes, just so he can see that look—and not only with science. If he's being honest with himself—more of a rarity than he'd like to admit—the idea of inviting Peter to the new penthouse had something to do with that. The look on the kid's face as he gave him the tour was worth it. But the invitation also had to do with the fact that working in the lab with Peter has provided Tony's only true moments of peace in the past months.

It's not the same when he tinkers alone for hours on end. It's a way to pass the time, but he feels a restlessness he never used to, when he was content with the company of a few artificially not-so-intelligent robots.

Tony's mind drifts to the kid whenever he's not around. He visualizes where Peter might be—where he probably is, because Tony swears to God he's not stalking the kid but he does have his class schedule memorized. And then there's the matter of the tracker; May Parker insisted on it being reinstalled in the suit, so when Tony wants to know if Peter is out late patrolling again, he can simply check. He's more resigned and weary than mad when he sees (too often) that Peter isn't safe at home in bed—it would be too hypocritical, even for him, to admonish a fellow Avenger about his bedtime—but it gives him some peace of mind to know where he is. Just in case.

Tony thinks a lot about "just in case" these days. The only time the worry buzzing in his skull quiets down is when he's at the bottom of a bottle, or when Peter is within eyesight. Better yet, within reach. Sometimes, he has to touch him, just to make sure he's real. Feel that his body is still solid and warm, not—

Not. Not thinking about that either.

Peter's not here now. It's just Tony, on the sofa in his house robe, cradling the bottle of Jack Daniels Peter left on the coffee table.

Now, a new image is burned in his memory: the look on Peter's face when he found the bottle. No admiration, no awe at his scientific prowess, no radiant gratitude. Just disappointment, hurt. Which Tony made worse by snapping at him, because, he supposes, getting angry was easier than accepting that  _he_ was responsible for that look on Peter's face.

But really, what does the kid expect? Peter may be innocent, but he's not naïve. He must have known about Tony's vices, even if he never saw them up close.

It's just a bottle of whiskey, anyway. It's not as though he found Tony in the middle of a bender. Or with cocaine dusting his hair, passed out between a couple of porn actresses or any of the other shit he did ten, twenty years ago. Because he's managing. He comes when Pepper calls—only on official business, of course, and less frequently than it used to be—and he's still the shiny, metallic face of the rebuilt Avengers, just as Fury asked him to be.

Still, Tony is sure he never wants to see the kid look that disappointed, ever again. Or that hurt and remorseful because of him. Never wants to hear the words  _I'm sorry_  pass his lips—

Goddammit, what does the kid have to be sorry for? It's Tony, it's all Tony, he's so fucking sorry—

He unscrews the bottle cap and takes a chug of Jack before he can think any harder about it.

If Peter were here, he'd be looking at Tony that same way again.

But Peter's not here.

…

Peter is careful not to drop in on Tony without warning again. His visits grow more frequent, but always preceded by at least a text of:

_in the neighborhood, can I swing by?_

_Literally_

_in the suit_

—or the likes. He's given up on finding flimsy excuses for needing to use Tony's workshop. But Tony never asks for a reason, and he never refuses Peter.

He's run into Colonel Rhodes at Tony's a few times. Once, the colonel was already there when Tony let Peter in, and another time he dropped by while Peter was over. The first time, he looked surprised, but not unpleased to see Peter; the second time, there was a wariness in his eyes as he glanced between him and Tony that bothered Peter for the rest of the day. Still, Peter's glad to know that Tony has another friend.

Because, he supposes, that's what he and Tony are. What else do you call people who spend every weekend together—even if that's all officially Avengers business—and voluntarily see each other multiple other times a week? Outside of school, Peter spends more time with Tony than with Ned, these days.

Which Peter feels bad about, really. Being around Ned, though, he's just reminded how out of place he is. For Ned, the second ever appearance of aliens over Manhattan is the stuff of excited hallway chatter, of  _where were you when—?_  Ned's world wasn't blown apart and stitched back together. Because Ned doesn't remember. No one does, except the ones who were there, who fought.

Peter does what he can to not remember. But no matter how good he gets at closing it off, focusing on a ceaseless cycle of homework, patrol, Avengers, at some point Peter has to sleep. Sleep means letting his defenses down. And that means waking up at least twice a week with the taste of alien planet dust in his mouth and a heart rate over 140.

At Tony's insistence, Peter sets aside the time to work on the Borg cube with Ned. He tries to take the same joy in it as he did in the Lego Death Star, and every other Lego project they've embarked on. He tries to joke and smile because Ned is his best friend, his brother, and he loves him—but he's never felt further away from him. None of what they do or share seems real, anymore. He feels like he's watching from the outside as he sorts through Lego bricks, as he sits through AP Government lectures, as he walks the halls of Midtown Science, as he sits across from May at their favorite Thai restaurant. Even his patrols feel like going through the motions, though at least in the suit he can close out the rest of the world for a while, focus on what's right in front of him.

The only thing that feels like it matters at all is the workshop, the lab, with Tony. Tony, whose large, warm hands ground him with their touches. They seem to have become surer, or maybe just more difficult for the man to refrain from. Either way, Peter does what he can to encourage them.

He hopes it makes Tony feel better, too.

…

"Hey, May?" Peter begins softly, picking at his nails in his lap.

"Yeah, sweetie?" She mutes the TV so she can give him her undivided attention. She waits; she must have caught the hesitation in his voice.

"Um, I just, I have a question—or, maybe not a question, but, um, I think, I just need to tell someone…?"

"What is it, Peter?" she asks gently, with a small, encouraging smile.

"Well, it's, about Tony," Peter mumbles. He still hasn't looked up from his hands.

May's brow furrows slightly, but she nods.

"Or, it's about, how I feel? About him?" Peter wets his lips. He glances at Aunt May.

She's simply watching him, alert and silent.

Peter clears his throat. "I mean, I know that he's, really… in a bad place. Like, lonely. I know that he tries to hide it. But, I can tell. He's hurting, and I just… I wish I could do something, you know?"

May looks like she's about to say something, but Peter presses on. "Because—May, when I look at him, sometimes, I just, I feel…" his hand clutches at his chest, trying to find the words, "like I can't breathe. My chest physically  _hurts_. I know it sounds weird, but. I just wish I could make him happy—I mean, sometimes, I make him smile, but, it's not enough. It just, it hurts to see him like that—" he rushes on, afraid May won't let him finish—"and May, please don't tell me I'm too young to care so much, don't tell me I need to keep my distance—I just, I just wish I knew what to do…" He bites his lip in frustration, his hands curled into fists.

"Oh, Peter," says May softly, her eyes shimmering. She reaches out to stroke his hair behind his ear. Her hand comes down to rub soothingly at his upper arm. "I'm not gonna tell you you can't care. You care because you're a good person, Peter." A sad smile quirks her lips and she nudges his chin affectionately. "You have a big heart."

Peter sniffs and looks back at his lap with a nod.

May sighs deeply. Her hand finds his arm again. "Tony… has had a big impact on your life," she begins carefully. "It's natural that you would care for him. You know, I had my doubts about him…" She purses her lips in a way that makes Peter think she still does. "But," she sighs, "I think his heart's in the right place. All things considered, if you've gotta be out there, doing—God knows what—" her brow knits in the way Peter hates to see, the way it always does when anything Spider-Man-related comes up—"then, I'm glad you have someone like him looking out for you. It's good you have someone to share these things with, Peter, because I know that I can't really understand it." Her voice catches at the end, and Peter pretends not to notice the moisture in her eyes.

She clears her throat. "But, Peter."

Peter steels himself. He knew there had to be a "but" coming.

"I want you to listen to me closely. Because it might be the hardest lesson to learn in life."

She waits for him to meet her solemn gaze.

"You can't fix everyone, Peter. Even the people you love the most. Sometimes love—isn't enough." She gives a tight, sad smile with a shrug that makes Peter wonder who taught her that lesson.

"And it's not your fault," she continues, forcing her voice to keep steady even as it thickens. "Some people… don't want to be saved. You have to know when to let go."

Peter opens his mouth to protest—he's not about to let go of  _Tony_ —but May cuts him off with a firm look. Her no-nonsense,  _I'm your aunt and you'll hear me out_  look.

"Tony Stark is a damaged man, Peter." Her eyes soften. "You can keep caring about him. Nothing's going to stop you from doing that." She lets out a small chuckle, but it sounds sad. "Keep making him smile. That probably does him more good than you know. But. You can't let your life revolve around him."

She tucks back the hair above his ear again. "I know you think you can save everyone," she says softly, petting his head. "I just don't want you to set yourself up for disappointment."

Peter shuts his eyes and swallows the lump in his throat. He leans into the feeling of May's hand on his head.

"I love you so much, Peter," she whispers. "I'm so proud of you."

Peter can't stop the tear that escapes from under his eyelashes. He leans in close to her, partly to hide his face, partly just to feel her warmth. She accepts him in her arms and holds him tightly. She's soft and smells like soap and home.

"Thanks, May," he breathes wetly. "Love you too."

Later, after she sends him to bed—"no late night patrolling, okay?"—Peter thinks about her words. One word, in particular.

_Even the people you love the most._

_Sometimes love isn't enough._

It was her word, not his. But maybe he said it a different way, and meant the same thing.

_Care so much—make him happy—like I can't breathe..._

Maybe May is right. Maybe he does love Tony.

Peter holds his breath for a moment. It isn't anything weird, he doesn't mean it in an  _inappropriate_  way—what did Ned say the other week, something about how "Iron Man is basically your dad"—and he's  _thirty-one_   _years older_  and so  _obviously_  Peter doesn't mean it like  _that._  Even if he does think a lot about his hands, how he wants them to touch him… it's platonic contact he wants. Just comfort, reassurance.

But he does love him, he realizes.

"I love him," he whispers to the dark room, and his stomach does a thrilled and frightened little  _whoop_. But it feels right and warm in his chest, and a bit sad, too. The words tug on his insides in that familiar way he feels when he catches a glimpse of Tony with his mask down.

His eyes prick and he pulls the cover over his head. "I love him," he whispers into the pillow.

He drifts to sleep and dreams a dream he doesn't remember the next morning, of Tony's arms around him, and his own body remaining solid and real within them.

…

"Okay, what's going on?" Tony asks when Peter's phone vibrates for the fifteenth time in two minutes. He jabs his screwdriver towards the offending device. "You know how I feel about phones in the lab."

Peter looks up like a deer in headlights. "Oh, sorry, Tony, uh, it's nothing—"

"I don't want an apology, Parker, I want an explanation," Tony cuts in quickly. Kid can't seem to break a habit. Best stop that right there.

Peter lets out an exasperated huff. "It's really nothing. Just, Ned keeps bugging me about this party he and the team are going to…"

"Party?" Tony quirks an eyebrow.

"Yeah, Halloween party tonight. It's stupid." Peter shoves the phone in his pocket.

Tony blinks. "That's this weekend, huh?"

"Yup."

Tony only thinks about it for a second, then—"You should go."

Peter snorts, swiveling towards him on his stool. "Right. I'll just get Happy to drive me an hour and a half back to Queens for a house party; I'm sure it'll make him really live up to his name."

"I could take you." It slips out before Tony can think it through. He doesn't miss the glimpse of hope mixed with the surprise on Peter's face. "Well, not me, personally," he adds quickly. "But I could have one of the suits take you. Ten minutes tops."

The awe on Peter's face— _there it is_ —fills Tony's chest for just a moment before Peter's looking away.

"You don't have to do that, Tony, I really—I don't really wanna go anyway. Don't have a costume." He shrugs.

Tony shoots him a dubious look. "You're in  _high school_. It's Halloween. And your friends are gonna be there, you said so yourself. Of course you wanna go."

"But it's the weekend—"

"Yeah, when normal teenagers are supposed to be out partying and making questionable decisions."

"I'm not a normal teenager," grumbles Peter.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Cut the 'burdened with great destiny' crap. Go have fun with your friends."

"This is more important," insists Peter. "We're supposed to be—"

"Updating the security protocols for the new S.H.I.E.L.D. depot, which—oh right, is exactly what I did last weekend. It's like you said, Parker; Fury just wants to keep me busy. Besides, you have no right to talk. You've just been sitting there watching me torture this circuit board for the past twenty minutes. If you're not gonna be productive and you're not gonna go to bed…" He raises his eyebrows pointedly.

"But Fury…" Peter tries weakly.

"What Fury doesn't know can't hurt him." Tony winks.

Peter still doesn't look convinced, though. Tony fiddles absently with his screwdriver as he studies the kid, his downcast eyes, the twist of his lips.

"Hey," Tony says, softer. "Even if you really don't feel like going to this party, I think you should give it a chance. Might just have some fun by accident. You've hardly participated in any group social activities this semester."

"'Participated in group social activities,'" Peter snorts. "Watch out, you're starting to sound like one of your A.I.s, Tony." He smirks.

"Is that such a bad thing? What would Karen do, Peter? WWKD?"

Peter worries his bottom lip some more before muttering, "She would tell me to go."

"That's right." Tony smacks the screwdriver against the workbench. "I know, because I designed her. And I designed her right."

Peter squints. "So, you're really citing yourself as your support in this argument? That's not how it usually works—"

"No, more like my child who is capable of independent thought to an extent but was raised within a framework of values corresponding to my own and told never to question them—"

"Because that's so much better—"

"In any case, you'll listen to her when you won't listen to me, am I wrong? You need to go put on your suit and have a little chit-chat?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "No, no, fine. I'll go."

"Well don't sound so pleased."

"It's just—people, y'know…" Peter is speaking to the workbench, pulling his sleeves over his hands.

"Hmm, I do know." Tony narrows his eyes. "But, Ned is people, you like Ned. And uh, MJ? She'll be there?"

"Yeah, I think." Peter shrugs.

"Great, good. I like the sounds of her."

"You know, she's not S.I.'s biggest fan—"

"Yeah, well, can't please everyone. But she's  _smart_ , and she seems to like you, so. She's alright in my book."

"I don't think MJ likes anyone," mumbles Peter.

"And Peter? When people get you down, just remember that's what the bar is for."

Peter laughs incredulously. "Are you encouraging me to engage in underage drinking, Mr. Stark?"

Tony can tell that that "Mr. Stark" was intentional. Cheeky kid. He saunters towards him. "I'm telling you," he claps a hand down on his shoulder, "to have a good time."

He squeezes and Peter meets his eyes for a moment before looking away, a faint dusting of pink over his cheeks.

Interesting.

"What time's the party start?"

Peter clears his throat. "Uh, they're probably there now."

Tony checks his watch with a frown. "What kind of party is already going at nine o'clock?"

Peter regards him with raised eyebrows. "Uh, a high school party…?"

Tony snorts. "Alright, let's get you suited up." He slaps Peter's shoulder one more time before turning away.

"W-wait, suited up?" Peter stutters behind him.

"Yeah," says Tony, as if it's obvious. "You think I'm letting you fly at Mach 1 in your hoodie, kid?"

The look on Peter's face is priceless.

Several minutes and many an "oh my god Tony this is the coolest thing that's ever—holy shit is this happening—" later, Tony has Peter tucked safely inside the Mark 47.

"You good in there, kid? Comfy enough?" He knocks on the breastplate.

"Wow, wow wow—huh, it smells kinda funny in here—not in a bad way! I mean, it's amazing, Mr. Stark, thank you!"

This time the kid is so excited he doesn't even register the slip.

Tony smirks. "Alright. You need anything, you ask F.R.I.D.A.Y., okay? She's in charge. And I'm just a phone call away."

"Yeah, got it! Oh man, the party's gonna be worth it just for this—oh hey, Tony, can this be my Halloween costume—?"

"Don't even think about it, Parker." He opens the bay door. "I'm putting her on autopilot now."

"Her—wait, the suit's a girl?" Peter's tinny voice sounds genuinely confused.

"Figure of speech, Parker. Why so alarmed? Is it your first time inside a girl?"

Peter chokes.

Tony can't help but chuckle, even as he chastises himself. "Sorry kid, couldn't resist. Bet it is though." He masks the last sentence with a cough. He feels giddy. "Okay, bye."

"Wait, Tony, what am I sup—ohhh!" The suit takes off, and Peter's exclamation of surprise turns into a whoop of joy.

For a moment, Tony thinks back on his first flight in Malibu. Yeah, he knows how the kid feels. His chest swells at the thought of giving that experience to Peter.

With a half-smile on his face, he watches the Mark 47 ascend into the night sky.

He returns to work, keeping an eye on the suit's stats. When Peter reaches his destination he checks in with F.R.I.D.A.Y.

"Sentry mode. Keep your distance," he orders.

As the night wears on he asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. for intermittent updates on Peter's whereabouts. Just in case.

Tony's long since finished Fury's task and has taken to tinkering with the nano-bots on the Mark 52 to keep himself occupied when F.R.I.D.A.Y. finally informs him that Peter's back in the suit.

He checks his watch: past two a.m. He nods approvingly.

"Boss," F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice interrupts his thoughts, "Peter Parker is showing signs of impaired motor functions and slurred speech. Would you like me to run some tests?"

Tony blinks. Then he laughs. "That won't be necessary. Connect me with the kid."

Tony hears heavy breathing on the other end of the line. "Hey, Pete. You alright there?"

"Whuh—Mr. Stark? Is that you?" Peter's voice rises comically at the end of the question.

"Yup, me, buddy. How you feelin'?"

"I'm great! That was sucha good idea—you shoulda seen Ned's face! He didn't believe me when I told'im how I got here, so I took'im 'n' showed'im the suit…" Peter giggles, then his voice turns solemn. "Don' worry, Mr. Stark, I didn't tell anyone else, promise."

A fond smile tugs at Tony's lips. "You did good, bud. Hey, you in the air now?"

"Yeah, I keep tryna steer but F.R.I.D.A.Y. won't let me." He sounds indignant.

"Good girl. Hey, Pete, you uh, aren't feeling sick, are you pal?"

"Naw, naw, 'm good. Feel awesome. Swear I could, like, put on my suit an' go do my patrols, right now."

"Well, that is  _not_  happening, but, good to know. So, if you feel like you're gonna throw up, just let F.R.I.D.A.Y. know, 'kay? I don't need to be cleaning that up."

"Not gonna throw up. Swear."

"I'm holding you to it, Parker. See you in a few."

When the Mark 47 touches down in the Hall of Armor, Tony is there to catch Peter as he stumbles out of the suit.

"Woah, buddy, easy there." He grips Peter by the shoulders and props him upright. The words "Error 404: costume not found" have been scribbled in permanent marker on his white t-shirt. Ned's doing, if Tony had to guess.

Peter blinks and focuses his dilated eyes on Tony's face, leaning heavily into his hands. "Heyyy, Mr. S-Tony!"

"Mr. Stony, that's a new one."

Peter giggles again. Tony's sure he's never heard the kid laugh like that when he's sober.

" _Tony_ ," he corrects with a grin. "My mouth' a little—mouth, mouth—that word sounds so funny, am I saying it right? Something wrong with my mouth…" Peter screws up his nose.

"Nope, your mouth's good, kid." Tony blinks. "I mean—uh, never mind." Embarrassing. Good thing the kid probably won't remember this tomorrow.

"So, Pete, how much did you have to drink?" Tony pivots the conversation, but he's genuinely curious; he remembers well that the only similarly enhanced human he's ever known couldn't get intoxicated.

" _Enough_ ," Peter says, with a blinding smile.

It registers with Tony that he hasn't seen Peter this unreservedly happy in a long while.

"I can see that," he mutters distractedly.

Peter must catch something in his eye, because suddenly his gaze turns thoughtful.

"Let's get you to bed," Tony says quickly, going to steady Peter with one arm around his back.

Peter rambles drunkenly as Tony guides him through the long hallways of the compound back to his room. He isn't irritated by the chatter; it's endearing, and just coherent enough that he can put together a mental picture of Peter's evening. It seems to revolve mostly around drinking games, and Tony realizes with a twinge of guilt that Peter may have taken his advice too enthusiastically to heart.

Aunt May would have words for him—for them both—if she ever learned of it, but for now Tony decides to just be relieved that Peter's had a normal teenage experience for once.

When they reach the door to his room, Peter turns to Tony with wide brown eyes and says, "But honestly the best part was bein' in the suit, Tony. It was, like, a  _literal_  dream come true," and the kid looks so awe-struck, face so open and honest and full of that almost desperate  _admiration_  that Tony could just—

He blinks. Could just what? Something tells him he doesn't want to finish that thought.

"It was nothing, kid." He opens the door quickly and leads him into the room.

Tony lets go of Peter and strides towards the ensuite bathroom. "Okay, go on and get in bed, I'll get you some water and I want you to drink all of it, you hear me?"

Tony returns, glass in hand, just in time to see Peter nearly fall over as he attempts to get his shirt over his head. Tony rushes to set the glass down on the bedside table and help him pull the shirt off.

"Jeez, must have been busy with the Jell-O shots if your spidey senses are this scrambled," he mutters, tossing Peter's shirt onto a chair.

Peter sways on his feet and steadies himself with a hand on Tony's arm. "Yeah, I mighta o'erdone it," he admits sheepishly. "Just wanted to see if I even could. Get drunk."

Tony blinks. "You mean, you've never… been drunk, before."

"No, this is my first time." Peter grins up at him conspiratorially, his eyes warm and unfocused.

He looks so goddamn young. Too young, considering… what he's been through. God, the number of times he's almost died—all without ever having gotten drunk.

Tony ignores the part of his mind that corrects him;  _he did die…_

"Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

Tony's attention snaps back to the present. He notices a new furrow in Peter's brow.

"Like what?"

"Like that, that way you lookit me sometimes."

"I don't look at you anyw—what are you talking about?"

Peter's grip on his arm tightens and he sways forward. Tony's heart drums in his ears. He could pull away, but he's frozen by Peter's hand and his stare that is far too scrutinizing for one so drunk.

"Like, you're scared, or sad," Peter says somberly. "Like you wanna…" Peter searches his face.

Tony realizes he's holding his breath. "Wanna what?" he breathes out, and he meant for it to sound casually curious, but instead it comes out low and laden with significance.

Peter's eyes widen a fraction. His face is just a little too close, and he stares at Tony just a little too long before he answers, "I don't know. What do you want, Tony?"

The question is innocent, but it's what finally propels Tony into action. He jerks his arm back and doesn't feel bad when Peter stumbles a few steps.

"I have no clue what you're talking about, kid," Tony says sharply. "Now get in bed."

"But I gotta… I can't…" Peter pouts. His fingers scrabble pathetically at his belt buckle, and all vestiges of the previous moments' intensity vanish.

Tony rolls his eyes. "For God's sake—here."

He steps awkwardly back into Peter's space and grabs hold of the buckle. His face is warm; he tries to focus only on what his hands need to do.

"If only your Aunt May could see us now, huh kid?" he chuckles nervously, just to fill the silence, make it less awkward. His mouth's on autopilot. "I would never be allowed within 500 feet of you."  _Shit_. So much for less awkward.

He frowns. "Uh, sorry. That was wildly inappropriate—" good, belt's done, just the button and zipper now—"just, not in the habit of undressing drunk teenagers—" great, apparently his mouth isn't finished—"I mean, it's been at least, what, fifteen years since the last time—" oh thank God, pants done, he'll leave the kid to do the rest but did he just hear himself right—

He darts back, hands shoved safely into his pockets. "What the hell am I saying," he laughs, as if it's supposed to be funny, looking anywhere but at Peter. "That's not even true. In fact, I tend to prefer my partners more experienced—" Deep breath. "I'm going to stop talking."

Tony clamps his lips shut and glances over to see if Peter is looking at him like he's some old pervert.

But mercifully, Peter seems to have barely registered a word. He's fully engrossed in the task of shimmying out of his jeans and crawling into bed.

"Uh, pajamas, buddy?"

Peter waves a floppy arm. "Boxers fine."

Tony nods. He presses the glass of water into his hands. "Drink."

Peter dutifully gulps it down. Tony takes the glass and refills it in the bathroom, then returns it to Peter's bedside table.

"Good night, pal." He turns to leave, but a surprisingly firm grip around his wrist stops him.

Peter's looking up at him with the earnestness only the very drunk possess. "Tony, wait. Just… thanks. For everything," he slurs. "You're the best."

Tony's brow twitches. "Don't mention it." He starts to pull away, but Peter tightens his hold.

"No, I mean it." Peter's eyes are urgent. "I really mean it, Tony. I don't think you know, how much it means to me… just, everythin' you've done for me, it's  _so_  much…"

"Hey, hey, you don't have to—Peter, it's okay." Tony finds himself drawn back to his side. The kid's eyes are shimmering with emotion and that—not good. Tony does not deal well with weepy drunks. Even less well with weepy Peter Parkers.

He places his hand over Peter's, still on his wrist, coaxing him to loosen his fingers and drop his arm back onto the covers.

"It's okay," he repeats softly. "I get it, kid. Really, though, you don't have to thank me."

Peter relaxes against his pillow, his eyes sliding shut. "I do," he murmurs sleepily. "Have to make you see."

See what, Tony wonders. Oh well. No use trying to decode drunk brain.

Peter pulls his blankets up around him and turns into his pillow. He sighs. Then he says, quietly but unmistakably: "I love you."

Tony blinks. He laughs. A single, surprised exhale. He stares down at Peter. It's suddenly difficult to breathe.

He clears his throat. "You're drunk, kid."

But Peter's already asleep.

Tony sighs and shakes his head. "You're drunk," he repeats, softer. "Don't you know you can't just go around saying stuff like that?"

Maybe Peter doesn't know. Because he's so, so young. But he'll learn, Tony's sure.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches down to stroke Peter's wavy brown hair. It's a little on the long side, Tony notes. He'll probably be cutting it soon.

He leaves the room silently and heads straight for his own suite, instead of back to the lab as he had planned.

There's a third of a bottle of Glenfiddich waiting for him in his dresser. He uncaps it and plops down on a chair.

He takes a long swig, relishing the burn. Breathes deeply through his nose.

What the actual fuck.

When did things get to this point? Not just the kid thinking he loves him—whatever he means by that—but the things Tony's doing, too, the lines he's overstepping.

Like Tony's brilliant idea to lend the kid a suit. Not a tailor-made Spidey suit, but an  _Iron Man_  suit because what, he was feeling charitable? Or because Tony wanted to see the look on his face, hear the sincere  _thank yous_ even when he insisted he didn't want them?

And those things he said to the kid, the jokes—sure, Tony has let his filter go a bit after spending so much time with Peter, but still. The kid's a minor. Tony doesn't need to be making sexual innuendos and unfunny come-ons around him.

Because, really, he  _knows_  that what's going on with Peter isn't normal. He knows it's not normal for a man pushing fifty to seek out the company of someone like Peter "I Am Sixteen Going On Seventeen" Parker. He knows that he's a pathetic alcoholic who can't stand to be around the people he's disappointed, the people who can see his flaws—which is to say, everyone but Peter Parker. He knows that the kid is too young, too naïve to see what they see, or at least naïve enough to think Tony can change, can be fixed. He knows that's why he likes Peter.

He doesn't need to make it worse by making it weird. Or maybe it already is weird, but he doesn't need to call attention to it.

Seems as if Peter's attention has already been caught, though.  _That way you look at me sometimes…_

Kid's more observant than Tony gives him credit for, or Tony's poker face isn't as good as he thought. And the way the kid leaned in close when he said it, like he knew he had Tony pinned to the spot…

No, no. The kid didn't know  _shit_. He was just  _drunk_.

_What do you want, Tony?_

Tony shudders. He wishes he knew. Or he doesn't, really. Doesn't want to explore down that road.

Not that there's anything to explore. He doesn't have anything to hide. His relationship with Peter may be unconventional, but they're unconventional people who have had some pretty fucking unconventional experiences.

It's not as though he wants anything…  _untoward_ , from the kid.

God, no. Just. No.

He hasn't actually done anything wrong, and as long as it stays that way, it's fine. It's fine if he likes having Peter around a little more than he should. It's fine if he likes being close to him. Touching him. Just a hand on the shoulder, paternal physical contact. That sort of thing. Could anyone blame him?

There's nothing wrong with it. He's not guilty of anything.

Tony brings the bottle to his lips, and finds it's already empty.

…

"Really, Tony? A Halloween party?"

"Oh, c'mon, Rhodey, it's not as though it's the first time someone other than me has worn one of my suits. Case in point." Tony gestures towards his friend.

"Hey, leave the War Machine out of this. This is about you, Tony. You know that shit isn't gonna fly with Fury."

"Fury doesn't have to know, if  _someone_  doesn't tell him." He gives Rhodey a significant look as he settles himself comfortably on his Ceccotti sofa, tumbler in hand. "Besides," he adds, taking a sip of his whiskey, "kid's an Avenger. Not like I was lending it out to a civilian. Don't see what the big deal is, frankly."

Rhodey rolls his eyes, lowering himself into an armchair with a soft electric whir from his leg braces. "I'm not gonna tell Fury, Tony, but man, you can't pull shit like that. I mean, what's going on with the kid?"

Tony suddenly finds the liquid in his glass fascinating. "Hm, what do you mean?" he asked distractedly.

"You know, Tony."

"Do I?" He glances up innocently, because—yeah, he does know. Doesn't mean he's going to make it easy for Rhodey.

"You've been… spending a lot of time together," Rhodey begins tactfully.

"Yeah, sort of comes with the whole mentor/mentee territory—"

"Except you're not acting like a mentor, Tony," Rhodey cuts in, unexpectedly emphatic. "And you sure as hell aren't acting like a father."

And that—ouch. Low.

Tony narrows his eyes at his glass. "Oh? How am I acting? Enlighten me."

"You're acting like you would with a fan, Tony. Like, you need to impress him."

Tony can feel the panic attempting to rise in his chest. Way too close to the bone. He stamps it down. "Believe me, Rhodes, I've never had to try to impress my fans—"

"Letting him ride in a suit to a high school party; I mean, what the hell else do you call that?"

Tony bangs his tumbler down on the coffee table, harder than intended. "For Christ's sake, I was trying to be  _nice_. He's a teenager, he deserves to be out from under Fury's thumb every once in a while—"

"Yes, Tony, he's a  _teenager_. A  _minor_. Did you even stop to think about the fact that we are legally responsible for him when he's at the facility, not to mention contractually bound to inform his aunt, his  _legal guardian_ , of his whereabouts on our watch?"

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "It was  _harmless_ , Rhodey. God forbid the kid have a little fun now and then—"

" _This_  time. How far's it gonna go, though?"

Tony glares over his hand. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Rhodey sighs. Tony braces himself.

"Tony, I know you. It's not like this is coming out of nowhere. The suit thing? Yeah, maybe not that big a deal in the scheme of things. But it's that scheme of things I'm worried about. I've seen the way he looks at you."

Tony balks. "How's that?" he challenges, but it doesn't come out as confident as he'd hoped.

Rhodey purses his lips. "That look in his eyes? It's hero worship, Tony. You know as well as I do. And that's dangerous. It was fine while you were keeping your distance, but now…"

Tony scoffs. "Just what are you accusing me of, here? Do you honestly think I'm doing that kid more harm than good? It's not like I'm the one that brought him into this life. I've just been trying to look out for him."

"I'm just wondering," begins Rhodey slowly, "what you really want from that kid."

Tony's expression hardens.

_What do you want, Tony?_

"What do you mean," he asks stonily. "My motivations can't be altruistic?"

Rhodey looks pained; Tony almost wishes he weren't acting so defensive. Almost.

"I think you're using Peter to fill a hole in your life."

Tony stares at Rhodey and his round, too concerned eyes.

"Yeah, well." His voice is flat, tense. He stands and grabs his tumbler up, takes another swig. "The kid is the only one who gets it. So is it so wrong?" He wanders towards the window with a scowl.

"Tony," Rhodey begins earnestly, rising to follow his friend, "you're not the only one who lost people. You're not the only one who remembers."

Tony rounds on him. "Except that  _I am_. I'm the only one who remembers what  _I saw_ ," Tony grits through his teeth. His fingers are white where they press around his glass. "I watched my team die, Rhodey." He drags a hand over his mouth, gives a single, tight shake of the head. "No one else."

Rhodey's eyes soften. He seems about to speak, but Tony pushes on; "Did you know I saw that? Before it happened, I mean. Wanda put it in my head. Back when she was a freaky mind-controlling thorn in our sides. And I never forgot it." He swallows; it hurts his throat. "What it felt like to see them, dead. And me, still standing." He grimaces. "I figured, all these years, I could survive anything, as long as I never had to see that come true."

Tony's eyes go unfocused as he stares back out the window. "Of course, it was worth it." He shrugs. "We all knew it was dangerous going in, but it was worth it, to save half the universe. 'Because that's what heroes do.' And we did." He nods and gestures towards the window with his glass. "Now half the people out there are happily reunited with their loved ones, whom they don't even remember missing in the first place. And their ignorant bliss is  _worth it_." He spits out the last words like venom.

Rhodey frowns, reaching for Tony's arm. "Tony—"

"No." Tony pulls away quickly, shakes his head. "No, that's—that's fine." He smiles a horrible smile that pulls his lips and doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't look at Rhodey. "It's how Steve always wanted to go. It's… what we all signed up for."

Tony breathes deeply through his nose. "No," he lets out with a breathy chuckle. "No, uh, what I think is really—elegant, actually; poetic, even—I don't get what everyone else gets," he says slowly, as if weighing every word. "It's my… punishment. For surviving." His voice has grown quiet. "I remember what they don't."

Finally, he looks at Rhodey. His eyes are wide and piercing, his lips drawn. "You were there," he whispers. "But you didn't see it. You didn't see them disappear. And you didn't see Peter Parker—" his voice catches on the name—" _die_."

Tony draws close to Rhodey. His voice is just loud enough for the two of them, but it electrifies the whole room.

"You didn't  _hold him_  in your arms and hear him beg you and  _apologize_. You didn't have him stuck under you fingernails for  _days—_ " Tony has to stop. He squeezes his eyes shut, whole body tense.

After several motionless seconds, Tony inhales through his nose. His eyes fix back on Rhodey's rueful face.

"Only the kid gets it," he breathes out. It's an explanation, an excuse—a plea. For Rhodey to understand what he can't possibly understand.

Rhodey takes a moment to find his voice. "Tony… you never told me—"

"That's because I can't talk about it." Tony pivots away, unable to stomach the sympathy— _pity_ , his mind supplies—in Rhodey's eyes. He heads for the liquor cabinet on autopilot.

"Maybe you should try. It could—"

Tony slams down the bottle of bourbon he's picked up. "I.  _Can't_. Talk about it."

Rhodey is silent. Tony refills his tumbler with shaking hands, and downs it in one gulp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again to everyone who's commented--even though I haven't had time to respond individually, I do read and appreciate your comments so so much! They really helped motivate me to get this chapter done quickly. Hope you all enjoy the extra long one!

The plate of food that suddenly appears in his field of vision is so extraneous to the line of code he's been staring at for the past thirty minutes that for a moment, Peter doesn't understand what it's doing there.

He blinks at the omelet, then up at Tony, who raises an expectant eyebrow.

Peter frowns. "What is that?"

"Okay, a little slow on the uptake today." Tony crosses his arms and leans against the workbench. "That," he nods to the plate, "is an egg dish of French origin known as an  _omelette_ , similar but superior to the Italian  _frittata_. And I've been told I make a decent one."

Peter stares at him. "You… made me an omelet?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Wow, you're doing wonders for my faith in your analytical skills, kid. To think I vouched for your brain when all Fury was interested in was your brawn." Tony's mouth is running a mile a minute. "Yes I made you an omelet, which you should be eating. Now. Me—nine hours lab time, no break no problem. You're a different story."

Peter looks back at the dish and grimaces. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"Excuse me? That's three organic, happy free-range eggs right there, from chickens so well-treated the U.S. government probably paid for their college educations."

"Oh, no…" Peter shakes his head and sighs tiredly. "I mean," he gestures to his face.

"Ah."

"I look—"

"Like shit, yeah. Did you sleep last night, kid?"

Peter glances up at him with raised eyebrows, but he doesn't have the energy to give him the full Peter Parker skeptical stare. "You sure you wanna lecture me about healthy sleep habits?"

Tony narrows his eyes. "I can't get away with a 'do as I say not as I do' here, can I?"

Peter gives him a weak "out of luck" smile.

Tony cocks his head. "Touché. But, I am gonna insist you eat that. A growing spider needs his protein."

Peter looks back at the omelet and swallows. Tony Stark, the man who pulls 16-hour stints in the lab fueled by nothing but caffeine on a regular basis, is trying to ensure he gets a nutritionally balanced meal. The irony would make Peter laugh, if he'd eaten more than half a banana all day.

The truth is, he has no appetite. Which has been true more often than not, the past few weeks.

He had hoped, after the Halloween party, that things would change. He had a good time that night, with Ned and the team. Even Flash had kept the taunts to a minimum.

Or at least, that's what Peter thought, but how can he really tell when large chunks of the evening are still missing from his memory? When he returned to school the next week and found it no less difficult to interact with his classmates or share in Ned and MJ's amusement at a meme sent to the decathlon team's group chat, Peter realized nothing had changed. The only difference at the party had been the copious amounts of alcohol in his system. When he concentrates, what he remembers best is pounding back shots. As it turns out, getting drunk with his friends doesn't mean getting closer to them.

It made everything so easy that night, though. Like Peter was floating, like he could just exist, didn't have to think. He hates to admit it, but he understands why Tony does it so often. But Peter doesn't want to be like Tony.

Which he's doing a bang-up job of because—there, even his thoughts are catching the older man's sarcasm—Peter's simply substituted one addiction for another. A few times a week he stays out on patrol till he sees the sky begin to lighten; sometimes all he does is swing through the quieter streets of Queens for hours on end, focusing on the rhythm of each catch and release of his webs. But the more exhausted he gets, the more his subconscious sabotages him by making what little sleep he does manage fitful and restless. The dreams are getting worse.

Like the one he had last night.

Peter wets his dry lips. "Thanks, but, you didn't have to, Tony. I'm not hungry."

Tony scowls. "Jeez, you're really strung out, aren't you? Okay, out with it. What happened?"

Peter gulps and shakes his head, looking at his lap. "Like you said, didn't sleep. Just…" He takes a deep breath. And promptly lies. "Shitty day at school yesterday." Well, not a lie, technically, but not a full truth either.

Tony's waiting for elaboration, so Peter continues with a shrug, "You know, the usual. Teachers, Flash—"

"I need to put the hurt on that guy?"

The corner of Peter's mouth twitches upward. "Thanks, but no. I'm used to his BS."

Tony hums skeptically. He glances pointedly at the omelet. "Well, whether your body thinks so or not, it will feel better with food in it. Trust me, I know from many years of being force-fed by P—people."

Peter pretends not to notice that Tony was about to say "Pepper." He decides he can afford to humor the man a little.

With a sigh, he picks up the fork and carefully cuts off the corner of the omelet. He brings it to his mouth and chews slowly, not tasting a thing. His throat protests against swallowing, but eventually he gets the bite down.

It's as if the presence of food in his stomach sets off a chain reaction. Suddenly Peter feels sick, hot and achy. All the reasons he hasn't been able to eat come flooding in, all at once. He hates the feeling, and he hates himself for being too weak to handle a single bite.

But Tony is still watching, so he stretches the fork out to cut another piece. He brings it to his mouth, struggling to control the tremor in his hand, and forces himself to chew and swallow again. He feels tears prick at his eyes.

"Hey, Pete—" Tony starts, alarmed.

Peter's hand trembles as he cuts a third bite. His breathing is ragged, but he needs to do this, he can do this because it's just a fucking omelet and he's not about to fall apart right in front of Mr. Stark—

His hand slips. The fork clatters to the floor, sending flecks of egg flying.

"Shit," he sobs, pressing a hand over his eyes. Oh God, how has he managed to mess this up too, why does he ruin everything—"Sorry, I'm sorry—"

" _Hey_ ," Tony repeats, forcefully but not unkindly. Suddenly he's kneeling down in Peter's field of vision, picking up the fork but keeping his eyes intently on Peter. "It's okay. That?" He points at Peter's violently shaking hands. "You don't apologize for that."

Tony stands. He's close, practically right over Peter, but he doesn't touch him. "Breathe, Peter," he commands. His voice is low and honey-warm.

Peter bites his lip and struggles to obey. His lungs won't cooperate.

"Let it out slow."

Peter exhales as if blowing through a straw, the way he learned in therapy as a kid.

He repeats. In through the nose. Out through the straw.

"Good," says Tony softly. Peter lets the word soothe him like a balm.

Eventually, Peter's hands stop shaking. He feels drained.

And God, so embarrassed. He hangs his head. What must Tony think?

"I broke a crayon once."

Peter looks up. He's so confused by the non sequitur he forgets to look properly ashamed for a moment.

Tony clears his throat. He's leaning against the workbench again, fiddling with the fork. "A kid's crayon."

Peter still doesn't understand where Tony is going with this.

"See, the kid heard all about my big heroics on the news. Wanted me to sign her drawing. Iron Man, with a nuclear warhead on his back. Broke the crayon clear in half. By accident, of course." Tony sniffs. He smiles joylessly. "Anxiety attack. My first one."

Oh. Peter drops his gaze. It makes sense. He should have recognized it sooner; the telltale signs were there, the nervous ticks, like how Tony grabs his left arm whenever he's stressed.

"I didn't realize…" His voice comes out scratchy and raw.

"You weren't supposed to," says Tony simply. "But really, I flew through a wormhole and saw an entire alien fleet headed for Earth. How does that  _not_  screw with your head, am I right?"

It seems Tony is actually waiting for a response, so Peter nods.

Apparently that's enough for him, because the man barges on: "You know, our line of work, it's inevitable. We all end up with—baggage." He lets the first consonant of the word pop off his lips.

"So." He's back to fiddling with the fork, glancing at Peter uncertainly from under his lashes. "You wanna go back to stuffing it all down inside, that's your prerogative. Or, you could tell me what's really been going on with you."

Peter sighs. He rubs his eyes. He still feels self-conscious about Tony seeing him in such a vulnerable state, but how much worse can it get? And it's not lost on Peter that Tony is out of his comfort zone, too.

"I just, um." His jaw juts out the way it does when he starts to get choked up. He knows he must look a mess: red-rimmed eyes, pale cheeks. He wipes his nose and stares straight ahead. "I feel like, I'm really far away. From everyone. Y'know?"

He notices out of the corner of his eye that Tony has stopped playing with the fork and is holding perfectly still. He swallows.

"I can't—talk, to anyone. Not to Ned, or even May most the time." He wets his lips. "I really haven't been sleeping. I get, dreams. A lot. Last night was. A really bad one."

He bites his lips and looks down at his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

Tony shifts. His hand stretches out, and Peter feels the relief flood through him in anticipation—

And then Tony draws back.

Peter's head snaps up. "Wait!" He's taken aback by the urgency in his own voice. "You can touch me, it's okay!"

The words are out of his mouth before he has time to process them. He freezes in mortification.

Tony quirks an eyebrow. "Okay…" the man says warily, clearly uncomfortable as he places his hand gingerly on Peter's shoulder.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, mentally berating himself. Now it's awkward.

Tony clears his throat. "Uh, sometimes people are a bit jumpy, after—"

"I know," Peter blurts out. "But it's good, when you touch me." And oh God, he's making it worse; what is he saying?

His heart is thumping against his ribcage again, but for entirely different reasons than a few minutes ago. Tony's hand hasn't moved, but Peter doesn't dare look up at him. He has to fix this.

"No, what I mean is—" Deep breath. "What I'm trying to say is." Breathe. He focuses on Tony's left elbow, right at his eye level. Traces the folds of his long-sleeve tee where it's pushed up to expose a powerful, tanned forearm. Tony has a lot of arm hair, Peter notices.

"Um. What I'm trying to say," he repeats, and thank God Tony hasn't tried to interrupt him, "is that, sometimes…" He swallows. Sometimes what? "I don't… feel real," he says slowly.

Tony's fingers tighten on his shoulder almost imperceptibly. "How do you mean?" His voice is surprisingly hoarse and—scared?

Peter closes his eyes. "I mean…" He draws a shuddering breath. Swallows, twice.

"I remember," he whispers. "What it felt like, when I—"

Tony tears his hand away. "I can't talk about that," he rushes out, voice cold. "I'm sorry, Pete." He turns away.

Finally, Peter looks up at Tony. The hand that had been on Peter's shoulder is clutching his left wrist.

Peter stares at his rigid shoulders. His chest aches. "But, when someone touches me…" he continues, his voice small and cautious, "or, actually, just you…" His eyes trace down Tony's broad back. He swallows dryly. "I mean, the others. They don't… remember—"

"I know," interrupts Tony gently.

Peter's eyes flit up to what little he can glimpse of Tony's face. It's impossible to make out his expression.

"But, you do. Remember." Peter's voice is soft. "And, when you put your hand on my shoulder, or my back, I… I know I'm okay. So, just, you can touch me, okay?"

He looks at the back of Tony's head pleadingly and holds his breath. He needs Tony to understand, he needs him to not pull away—

Tony turns around. The expression in his eyes as he gazes down at Peter is unreadable, but Peter thinks there's a new element to it. Something a touch darker, that wasn't there before.

He's standing close to Peter. Close enough that all he needs to do is bend his elbow to place his hand on Peter's shoulder again. Firmer, this time.

"Like this?" It's barely above a whisper. Peter stares up at him, caught in his eyes, and nods.

His hand slides to the back of Peter's neck, heavy and warm. Peter can't help but shiver at the sensation of skin on skin.

"Or this?" Tony keeps his voice low, carefully void of intention, watching Peter's face.

Peter's eyelashes flutter as he nods again shakily, drunk on the proximity. His senses are tuned to the max: Tony's body heat, his  _smell_ , expensive musky-pine-mint whiff of whiskey—they're overwhelming, but in the best way. He feels enveloped, cocooned, safe.

Suddenly Peter realizes the position they're in; he's allowed the weight of Tony's hand to pull his head forward, so he's staring at the man's stomach inches from his face. A blush creeps up his cheeks—even though he knows there's nothing indecent about it, really, the man's just trying to comfort him—

Maybe Tony noticed, too, because the next moment his hands are under Peter's arms and he's pulling him upright with a small frown.

"C'mere," he mutters, and before Peter realizes what's happening, there are two strong arms around him and he and Tony are chest to chest.

Tony is… hugging him.

Peter's breath catches. The last time Tony held him like this was  _after_ , when he first laid eyes on him again. The only time before that was…

Peter clenches his eyes shut against the orange light of an alien atmosphere. He fights down the lump in his throat and buries his face in Tony's shoulder as his hands scrabble to find purchase in the back of his shirt. A silent sob racks his frame.

"I'm sorry," he gasps wetly against the shoulder, because he can't even keep it together for a simple hug.

He feels Tony go rigid. "Don't." His arms tighten around Peter. "Don't be."

Peter's immediate instinct is to apologize again, but he tamps down on it just before it reaches his lips. Instead, he sniffs and sighs out, "I just feel really tired."

"I know," Tony breathes into his hair.

Tony doesn't move. He just holds him. Peter can feel the other man's breath tickle his ear, his chest rise and fall against his own. Peter syncs his breathing to the steady rhythm. It's soothing, almost hypnotic.

He loses track of how long they've been standing there. Peter didn't realize it before, but this is what he's needed. It's so much better than every simple touch of a hand combined, this full-body press of warmth: solid,  _real_. Every cell in his body feels grounded and present. He wants to stay like this forever.

Maybe Tony does, too, because he's not letting go, until—

Tony squeezes tighter for just a second before pulling away, eyes downcast. He keeps one hand on Peter's shoulder, almost sheepish.

Peter misses the heat of the embrace immediately. He gazes at Tony, unable to disguise the longing on his face.

Tony inhales as if to speak, but then his eyes flit up to meet Peter's, and he seems to think better of it. He licks his lips—Peter swears to himself he doesn't mean to follow the movement—and swallows.

"You're okay, kid," he says roughly, and turns away with a squeeze of his hand. It's  _almost_  paternal.

He walks slowly and deliberately back to his work station. Peter can still feel the imprints of his fingers on his shoulder.

…

"Schmoozing is an art form, kid. One which I have perfected and which you will come to appreciate some day." Tony sniffs and squints at himself in the mirror, smooths back a strand of hair that's fallen from an otherwise perfect coif.

"Somehow I doubt that," mutters Peter, fumbling as he reties his tie for the umpteenth time. Why can he never manage to do it the way May showed him? "I'd rather just… have a real conversation with someone, instead of trying to get something out of them."

Tony glances at him out of the corner of his eye, then down at his shoes. "And that," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, "is exactly why we need you tonight. All that fresh-faced optimism, the good intentions—God, the bigwigs are gonna eat that up like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. It's the last thing they'd expect from Tony Stark's own protégé."

"So," Peter narrows his eyes, "you're using me. As a… schmoozing aid?"

Tony cocks his head. "Would it be bad if I said yes?"

Peter huffs.

Tony shrugs. "They'll love you, kid; just stick with me and don't—Jesus Christ, gimme that thing, I can't take it any longer." He snatches the tie from Peter's hands. "It's like watching the Swedish Chef try to julienne a carrot."

Peter's ears redden as Tony steps behind him to drape the tie around his neck.

"Didn't your aunt ever teach you to tie a Windsor?" he tuts.

"She did, actually, I'm just—I never got the hang of it."

Tony's arms reach around Peter to work on the tie at his throat. Peter swallows.

"Um, sorry for taking so long. I'm making us late."

"Don't be sorry," Tony says distractedly, focusing on the mirror over Peter's shoulder as he loops the tie with deft movements. Peter can smell his aftershave. "Gives me an excuse. Never arrive to a party on time, Peter; makes it look like you have nowhere better to be. People should always be under the impression that you have somewhere better to be."

Peter wets his lips. "Even if you don't?" he asks.

"Especially then."

Peter holds stock-still. Tony is right behind him, chest almost against his back, not quite touching. Still, it's the closest they've come to a real embrace since Peter's anxiety attack, weeks ago. He wishes Tony were more of a hugger. He'd thought perhaps it could become a regular thing they did, but no luck; Tony acted as if that day in the lab never happened.

With one final tug, the tie is neatly in place. Tony steps back to survey his handiwork, and Peter misses the proximity already.

Tony nods in approval and continues; "Back in my hey-day, I never showed up to a party less than three hours late. Because, what party that lasts less than three hours is worth attending in the first place?"

Peter frowns disapprovingly and Tony rolls his eyes.

"I've cut that down to a flat 40 minutes, these days. At least for functions like this. 'Professional courtesy' or something." He waves a hand. "Sort of necessary to the whole schmoozing thing." He clears his throat. "So, ready, Mr. Parker?"

Peter gives himself a once-over and swallows. He nods. "As I'll ever be."

Tony leads them out of Peter's room and down the corridor towards the building's main atrium.

Peter struggles to keep up with Tony's long stride. It makes him feel like a kid. As did Tony tying his tie for him. That's how Tony probably still sees him: as just a kid. It's not a prospect he relishes.

He falls in step with the man and clears his throat. "Uh, I always identified more with Beaker."

Tony glances at him. "What now?"

"You know, Beaker. The Muppet. He's a scientist, wears a lab coat—"

"I know my Muppets, kid; what's this—oh. Swedish Chef. Hmm." Tony squints at him thoughtfully. "Yeah, I can see it."

Peter blushes, but it's a better kind of blush than before.

"So does that make me the Dr. Bunsen to your Beaker?" Tony asks with a smirk.

Peter snorts, feeling bold all of a sudden. "Sorry to break it to you, Tony, but you're definitely the old heckler dudes on the balcony."

Tony raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Old heckler dudes, huh?"

"Prove me wrong." Peter grins impishly.

Tony narrows his eyes, but there's a fond smile tugging at his lips. "You're something, kid," he says softly, and Peter's not sure exactly how to take that. He doesn't get the chance to respond, though; they've arrived.

The main atrium of the Avengers Facility is packed—mostly with unfamiliar faces of nondescript S.H.I.E.L.D. employees and diplomat types. The few people Peter does recognize, he's not especially eager to see.

There's Maria Hill across the room, who usually seems intense and intimidating. She was the one with the brilliant idea to hold this soiree (or publicity stunt, as Tony referred to it) in the first place. There's a reason the woman fit in so well during her stint with Stark Industries PR.

Commander Hill is speaking with Colonel Rhodes, whom Peter would normally be relieved to see; however, Peter doesn't like the concerned looks the colonel has been throwing him recently every time they end up in the same room.

He spots Scott Lang nearby, whom he's barely spoken to since webbing up his twenty-foot legs and tripping him like an AT-AT. He seems easy-going enough to forgive, but the woman next to him does not, especially when her piercing eyes fall on Tony. Peter's only met Hope van Dyne once, and the impression he got then was to stay out of her way as much as possible. Now she's standing rigidly in her black dress, looking ready to crawl out of her skin. From the cold look she's throwing at them, Peter thinks that perhaps Tony's talk of the Stark-Pym enmity wasn't overstated after all.

Peter keeps close behind Tony as he threads his way through the crowd, easily brushing off several attempts by eager guests to strike up conversation. Peter tries his best to ignore the curious stares they give him.

He had thought of rejecting his invitation to tonight's function, considering that he can't even attend as Spider-Man and has to pose as Tony's intern. When he heard that Ant Man and the Wasp would be flying in from San Francisco, though (a hard sell, according to Tony, as S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to get back into Hank Pym's good graces), Peter knew that "I've got homework" wasn't going to cut it in the excuses department.

The only Avengers not in attendance are T'Challa, busy running his own country; Sergeant Barnes, somewhere in South America on a mission Peter has heard Tony call Fury's best invention yet; and Carol Danvers, with whom Peter has never even been in the same room, but who is currently "off-planet," because that's a term in the vernacular now.

They're supposed to be a team. It's ironic, Peter thinks. The only ones he really knows are Colonel Rhodes and Tony. Here they are in the company of international officials and renowned scientists, supposedly showing off the updated facility and celebrating the successful rebuilding and rebranding of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers (a respectable six months after the passing of most of the original members, Commander Hill was quick to note), and yet, Peter can't help but think there's not much to show behind the shiny new façade. How can they be a team when the others are out of or across the country most of the time, when Peter couldn't list a single personal factoid about most of them if his life depended on it? The original Avengers always struck him as a sort of family, if a dysfunctional one; the new Avengers are hardly more than strangers. It makes Peter feel like he's missed something important, like a key plot point in a movie.

"Ready for the onslaught?"

Peter jumps at the low voice breathing directly into his ear; he hadn't even noticed Tony leaning towards him.

Tony jerks his head towards a couple of suits approaching. "Secretary Ross' underlings. Oh joy."

The words are so clearly meant only for him, like an inside joke, that Peter can't help the small smile that spreads over his lips.

Tony straightens up and puts on his best shit-eating grin.

Peter sticks by Tony's side for a while. They make the rounds, Tony introducing him as his personal intern to the impressed and surprised nods of too many people for Peter to keep track of. They soon forget about his presence as they zero in on Tony, eating up his flattery or doling it out in equal measure. That's fine with Peter, though. He's used to disappearing into the background. It's safe there; safer than being noticed. Being noticed usually means being targeted. In all his years at school all he's wanted is to blend in, to not be noticed.

But Tony does notice him. "Hey, kid, you must be bored outta your skull, huh? Why don't you take a breather. Go sneak a champagne glass or something. I gotta talk to our dear Deputy Director for a bit, don't need my arm candy for that."

Peter blushes at the choice of words.

"Seriously, you've done great, though," Tony adds, already turning away. "I owe you one. Or several."

"Um, I didn't do anything…"

"That's what you think, Parker," Tony throws over his shoulder. "Schmoozing aid," he mouths exaggeratedly, with a significant nod. Then he's gone.

Peter sighs. He eyes the banquet table littered with champagne glasses, but a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Ned insists, "you're not old enough! You're just a kid, and all these people can tell you're just a kid!"

He bites his lip and glances around. If he's a kid, he's the only one here. There's no one to talk to.

His eyes fall on the glass doors to the terrace. It looks pitch black outside in comparison to the brightly lit atrium. Peter heads towards that.

He's ready to brace himself against the cold as he steps outside, but finds himself greeted by unseasonably mild evening air. It's refreshing after the press of bodies and echoing chatter inside.

He walks towards the glass railing of the terrace and leans against it, surveying the quiet, darkened grounds of the facility and the woods beyond, the view of the Hudson glittering under the half moon.

Suddenly the hairs on his arm stand up, and it has nothing to do with the cool evening breeze. It's not a threat, but he's sure someone is watching him.

"Hey, Spider-Man."

Peter's head snaps to the side. Sam Wilson emerges from the shadows into the half light of the atrium windows.

An amused smirk plays on Sam's lips. "You could like, sense me, right? I didn't sneak up on you?"

"Uh, no, no. Spider senses, yup."

"Okay, 'cause you look a little… on edge?"

"No, no, I'm good." Peter nods.

Sam doesn't look convinced. "Sure you are. What you doing out here? Never thought I'd see you more than ten feet from Stark's side."

Peter frowns. He doesn't like the way Sam says "Stark," like it's a dirty word.

"Just… taking in the view?"

Sam leans against the railing next to him, an eyebrow raised, but he doesn't push it.

"You?" asks Peter.

Sam sighs, his gaze drifting out towards the river. "Just thinking about some friends who couldn't be here tonight."

"Oh." Peter knows he's not talking about T'Challa or Sergeant Barnes.

Friends. Peter wouldn't think of any of his new teammates as friends. Except Tony. And if he lost Tony, the way Sam lost Captain Rogers…

"You must really miss him," he says quietly.

Sam nods slowly. "Yeah. I do." He glances at Peter. "They were good people, you know. Him and the others. Wish you'd gotten to know them better."

Peter needs a moment to find his voice. "Yeah, me too."

Sam looks at him, and Peter can't tell what he's thinking. Finally, he grins wryly. "Guess you and Cap didn't get off to the best start, huh?"

"Uh, no…" Peter blushes. He hopes Sam can't see it in the dim light.

"You and me neither."

"Yeah… Um, look, sorry for webbing you to the airport floor…?"

Sam waves it off. "That was ages ago, man. Anyway, it was no big thing. Got out of it in like, two minutes."

Peter scoffs in disbelief. Nobody gets out of his webs in two minutes.

"I'm sorry Redwing took you out," Sam shoots back.

"Took me out? That little drone thing? You wish."

"Hey, 'that little drone thing' has saved my ass, and many others, countless times. Respect the Redwing."

Peter grins. "Sure. The suit is pretty cool, though." He shrugs. "I like the wings."

Sam looks at him sideways. "Yeah, yours too," he admits.

"Thanks." Peter can't help but add, "Tony made it for me."

Sam snorts. "Oh, so you've finally graduated from calling him 'Mr. Stark,' have you?"

Peter shrugs, blushing harder.

"You and him spend weekends here, right?"

"Yeah. In the lab mostly. It's pretty great, actually."

"Well, glad it's you and not me. 48 hours with Stark in an enclosed space? Wonder who'd murder whom first."

Peter's hands clench on the railing in annoyance. "He's really not so bad."

Sam eyes him carefully. Peter looks straight ahead.

"Whatever you say, kid," he says mildly.

Peter frowns. He finds he doesn't like Sam calling him kid. It doesn't feel the same as when Tony says it. It's more patronizing, somehow.

Sam glances behind them at the people inside the atrium. "Crazy, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Looking at them, you can't tell the difference."

Peter stiffens. "Difference?" he asks reticently.

"Who's returned from the dead, who isn't." Sam's voice is soft. "Most of them don't even know themselves."

Peter bites his lip. "I—I thought everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. was debriefed on… what happened."

Sam shrugs. "Sure, but the details are sort of 'need-to-know,' you know? Most people don't need to know that they died."

Peter swallows. His hands feel clammy.

"You, me, we're like Lazarus, huh," says Sam quietly.

"Who's that?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Ain't you read the bible ever?"

"Uh, well, my aunt's family was Catholic, but I really wasn't raised in it, I mean, we're not religious—"

"Man, you gotta learn your references. Lazarus. Dude rose from the grave. Some folks say, he never smiled again."

Peter suppresses a shudder.

"That's supposed to be just Bible stories, though," Sam continues, somber. "Not the real deal. Messes with your head, remembering it actually happen."

Peter can't speak. Sam doesn't wait for a response.

"Way I like to think, least we'll be a bit more prepared the second time around. Little less scared, maybe, knowing it was quick. Painless. Sort of like falling asleep."

Peter feels like he's been stabbed in the gut.

"What?" he asks, breathless.

Sam looks at him with a frown.

"That—that's not how it happened," Peter stammers out.

"No?" Sam's brow furrows further.

"You—you didn't—I mean, couldn't you feel it?" His mind is a blur. He can't put his thoughts in order. "Every—like, every cell in your body was… dying…"

Sam's eyes widen. There's silence for a moment. Peter doesn't breathe.

Finally, Sam says cautiously, "Uh, maybe that was just a… spider thing."

Peter inhales. He tries his best to collect himself. He swallows, looks down at his feet. Nods. "Yeah, maybe." The words come out shaky.

Sam puts his hands in his pockets and shifts uncertainly. "You okay?" he asks slowly.

Peter nods again, still looking at his shoes. He can't seem to make any movement other than nodding his head. His hands are clasped tightly together over the railing. "Yeah. Fine," he forces out.

"You know, it's okay to not be okay," says Sam gently, like he's practiced at this. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to—"

"I'm gonna go," Peter says tightly. He looks up, forcing a smile. Sam blinks at him in surprise. "Yeah, I, uh, gotta find Tony." He jabs his thumb over his shoulder.

Sam frowns at him as he starts his retreat to the door. "Hey, Peter—"

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson—Sam. It was nice to… run into you." He turns and flees the terrace before Sam can get another word in.

Peter's heart is racing as he reenters the atrium and weaves through the crowd. The only thought in his mind is Tony; he has to find him, where is he where is he—

"Pete!"

Peter looks towards the voice and immediately a weight lifts from his chest. Tony is approaching, beaming at him and brandishing a champagne glass.

"Petey, Peter. There you are. Been looking for you."

The man sidles up next to him and drapes an arm over his shoulders, pulling him into his side. Peter sinks into the touch.

Tony looks loose and happy. Peter wonders how many drinks he had time for in the short while since Peter left him in the atrium.

Tony must notice the look on his face. "Crowd getting to you? Liquid courage?" He offers the glass in his hand.

"Uh," Peter laughs nervously. He's feeling better already, even if Sam's words are still echoing through his brain. He pushes them resolutely away, focuses on the heavy warmth of the arm slung around him, the solidity of Tony's torso pressed against his own.

He swallows. "I don't think that's a good idea? I mean…" he nods to indicate the people around them.

Tony shrugs with a grunt. He downs the glass himself.

"Um, you were, looking for me?" prods Peter hopefully.

"Yeah, I need a break from—" he waves his hand at the room in general.

"Schmoozing?" provides Peter.

Tony glares at him, but there's no heat to it. "Yeah. That. And Rhodey's judgy-ness," he mutters. "So, where you been?"

"I was outside—"

"Oh, good idea." Tony turns and guides him back towards the doors.

"Oh, wait, but, I mean, uh—" Peter can't think of an excuse to make him stop.

"Need some fresh air after dealing with those bloodsuckers," mutters Tony.

"Are they?"

"What?"

"Bloodsuckers?"

"Oh, positively vampiric. Well, Ross' people, at least."

"Oh."

They make it to the terrace. Peter glances around; Sam is gone. He breathes an inward sigh of relief.

"Oh, this is lovely," drawls Tony, approaching the railing and stretching his arms along it, cat-like. "Why isn't anybody else out here? Fools, staying indoors in December; who does that?"

Peter comes up next to him and Tony lifts his arm in invitation. Peter takes it, leaning in close. Tony's hand settles between his shoulder blades, then slides down to the small of his back.

That's new.

It's also, Peter finds, the perfect distraction from his earlier conversation, which took place just feet from where he's standing. He tries to trace Tony's hand in his mind, but it's difficult through the suit jacket. It's an amorphous, warm and welcome presence.

"How's the new web fluid?" Tony asks, offhand.

"Oh, it's great. Yeah, I haven't done any systematic tests yet but, the trial run on my patrol was great, it's got great action—"

"So, 'great.' That's what I'm getting here."

"Uh, yeah." Peter's cheeks heat up.

"Expand your vocabulary, kid—was it phenomenal, superb, fantastic, orgasmic—"

"Uh." The heat in his cheeks intensifies. "S-superb. I would go with superb."

"Superb." Tony claps his back, returns his hand to where it was, just above Peter's belt, rubbing slightly. "That's what I like to hear. So, no sticking problems?"

"No, we increased the adhesion—"

"I know what we did, kid. I'm just wondering if I'm going to get any more surprise drop-ins with complaints of 'sticky web-shooters.'" Tony eyes him mischievously.

"Oh." The blush rises up Peter's face. "No, no. No stickiness this time."

"Like there ever was." Tony raises a dubious eyebrow.

"I swear there was!" Peter squeaks out. He immediately attempts to school his vocal chords. "Uh, I mean, I definitely felt something… once."

"You sure it wasn't 40% of something?" There's a smirk playing around Tony's lips.

Peter rolls his eyes, but he can't help cracking a smile. "Maybe," he admits.

"That's what I thought." Tony's gaze is fond as he studies Peter's face.

Peter drops his eyes, feeling thoroughly examined in the way only Tony makes him. He wishes he would say something, anything to keep the conversation going, because if Peter doesn't have something to preoccupy himself, he knows where his mind will turn, back to that conversation, back to  _painless, like falling asleep_  and he really can't think about that right now because what if that means—

"Kid. I can hear you thinking."

Peter turns wide eyes to Tony. "What?"

"Care to share?" Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Um. It's nothing."

Tony snorts. "It's something. You've got that 'something' sort of look on your face. Wanna talk about it?" The hand still on Peter's back rubs soothingly.

Peter looks down, bites his lip. "No. I really don't," he says quietly.

"Fair. You… wanna drink about it?"

Peter gives him an uncertain look.

Tony shrugs. "It's what I do. I don't talk about my problems. I drink about them."

"I noticed," Peter mumbles.

"I'm not saying it's healthy. I own that about myself, okay? Just, don't make it a habit. But I won't tell if you don't, just for tonight."

Peter's lips twitch upwards. "So, what, are you gonna sneak me out some champagne or something?"

"Mm, don't think so. You're right, too many eyes. Or, really, one pair to worry about. I think Hill is your aunt's new handler."

"Handler?"

"Yeah—I mean, Fury would be right to hand it off to her; grizzled old dude with an eye patch doesn't exactly say 'don't worry, your child is safe with us, ma'am.' But Hill's style is more ear-to-the-ground as to what goes on in this facility. So. She would totally tell Aunt May if she saw me providing you with alcohol. Even though the bubbly's probably like, what, seltzer to you?"

"Oh, yeah. True." Peter can't help but feel a little disappointed; he finds he likes the idea of sharing a secret with Tony, the way he did before, when Tony was the only person in the world who knew he was Spider-Man.

"So." Tony sniffs. "What do you say we get out of here?"

Peter's eyes widen. "Uh—"

"My room," Tony clarifies. "I've got the good stuff in the cupboard."

"Yes! I mean—wait, can you just leave the party like that?"

"You call this smug circle-jerk a party? Tch."

Peter reddens at the colorful description as Tony presses on; "Yes, Parker, I can leave if I want. I'm Tony Stark."

It's moments like these that make Peter feel like he's ten years old again, watching Iron Man on the news, except now Iron Man has stepped off the screen and invited him to his room. For a drink.

Somewhere in the back of Peter's mind is the thought that an adult really shouldn't do that. Not a responsible one.

But it's  _Tony_. Peter trusts him, and more importantly, he definitely wants to go with him.

So he does. He follows Tony away from the atrium—mercifully unimpeded by brown-nosers or meddlers—and towards the residential quarters. Sam Wilson couldn't be further from Peter's mind as he walks alongside Tony, mentally measuring the exact difference in their strides.

Tony's suite is large—much larger than Peter's room at the compound—but still more human in scale than the penthouse. There's a seating area with a comfortable-looking sofa, on which Tony invites Peter to make himself at home. He grabs a bottle of scotch and two glasses from a cabinet.

Tony pours himself a couple fingers, but only one for Peter. "Not too much," he warns, handing the tumbler over and sprawling across the cushions next to Peter.

Peter pouts. "But it doesn't effect me the same, remember? Seriously, I'd have to drink that whole bottle to actually get drunk."

Tony purses his lips, but capitulates. He fills the glass even with his own. "That's a twelve-year-old Yamazaki single malt. Don't waste it."

"No, sir." Peter can't help but grin as he lifts his glass.

"Cheers," offers Tony, and they toast.

The first sip is fire on Peter's tongue. He winces; Tony rolls his eyes.

"If only I'd known the sophistication of your palette, Parker, I would've stocked up on the Everclear."

"No, it's great! It's really good!" Peter rushes out. His eyes are still watering.

"You are a terrible liar, kid." Tony takes what can only be described as a gulp of the liquid.

Peter forces himself to sip some more. Tony is watching out of the corner of his eye.

"You don't have to drink it, Pete."

Peter swallows. "No, no—um, the second taste wasn't so bad?"

Tony snorts, but there's a fond smile playing over his lips. He gazes at Peter, studying him the same way he did out on the terrace.

He lifts a hand—and runs his fingers through Peter's hair.

Peter's breath catches in his chest.

"Your hair," he mutters. "How on earth did you manage to mess it up? Used enough pomade to make a young Travolta envious."

Peter expects the hand to withdraw, but it doesn't. It continues to smooth back the hair on top of his head, the way Aunt May does—except completely different, somehow.

Peter wets his lips. "Um, yeah. Can't really get it to lay flat sometimes."

Tony hums and takes another swig of scotch. His hand strokes the hair back over Peter's ear, then trails down his neck to his collar. Peter's warm in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol in his belly.

Tony squints. "Is this the only suit you own, Parker?" He's rubbing his thumb over the material of Peter's shirt and lapel.

"Uh, yeah?" Peter takes another swallow and barely notices the sting this time.

Tony frowns. "We need to change that."

"Why?" Peter feels miffed at the thought that Tony doesn't like his suit.

"Doesn't fit you right. Sort of—boxy. Makes you look small. Young." His frown deepens. "I'll get you a new one."

Peter clutches the glass in his lap. Tony's still rubbing his lapel pensively.

"You can't just—you know, buy me a new suit."

"Why not?" Tony looks at him, genuinely nonplussed. "I give you new suits all the time, kid."

"Yeah, but, that's like, superhero stuff. You can't just, give me gifts whenever you feel like it." Peter doesn't understand why his face feels so hot. He drains his glass, hoping it will help. It only makes it worse.

Tony blinks. "Oh?"

"Yeah, you gotta, like, wait for an appropriate occasion."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Appropriate occasion?" He shrugs. "Sure. I can do that."

He says it so easily it makes Peter frown. He feels as if he's missed something, like the punch line of a joke.

He helps himself to more scotch. Tony doesn't seem to mind, isn't even watching how much he pours, so Peter fills the glass higher than before. He takes a long draft and grimaces through the burn.

"So." Tony is picking flecks of—something—off Peter's jacket now. "What kind of suit do you want?"

"Uh, I have no idea? What kinds are there?" He feels strange telling Tony what to buy him.

"Mm, I better decide." Tony takes a contemplative sip. "Tom Ford oughta do… Three piece…" He can't seem to stop touching Peter's jacket.

"O-Oh, could I wear a waistcoat?"

"Could you? Hypothetically? Yes." Tony finishes his drink.

"No, I mean… would I, uh, look good?" Peter doesn't know why the question is so difficult to get out, as if maybe he shouldn't be asking it. He takes a sip just to hide behind the glass.

But Tony doesn't miss a beat. "Of course you would. You've got the figure for it."

Peter can feel his flush spread all the way to his chest. The sip turns into draining half the tumbler. Tony Stark thinks he'd look good in a waistcoat.

Tony frowns and retracts his hand. He reaches for the bottle to refill his own glass. "I mean. I know, because I made your suits. Your measurements, I mean. The, the Spider-Man suits. It's just a—standard thing. Proportions."

"You… know my measurements," Peter repeats, because that's what his mind is caught on. His voice comes out breathy. "Right. Makes sense. What's my waist?" he can't resist asking.

"27 inches," Tony responds immediately.

Peter's mouth goes dry. Maybe it's the whiskey. He's starting to feel… tingly.

Tony brings his glass back to his lips. "You're—small," he mutters, and drinks. "Need a suit you can fill out. Waistcoat will help with that."

"Really?" is all Peter can manage.

"Trust me, pal. The term 'waistcoat bod' was coined for me." Tony downs another mouthful.

"I can believe it," Peter blurts out. "I mean, no one wears a suit better than you, Mr. Stark."

The moment it's out of his mouth he wants to sink through the floor. Could he be any more embarrassing?

But Tony simply smirks at him. "Why, Mr. Parker, you're trying to seduce me."

"What," Peter says weakly. His mind is blank.

"Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft—? Eh, might as well be the Stone Age to you."

It takes a moment for Peter's brain to catch up. He's doubly embarrassed for allowing himself to think, even for a second, that Tony wasn't just quoting some ancient movie, that he could really mean that.

"O-oh, actually, I've seen that one. Yeah. Um—" he laughs nervously—"don't you have it sort of backwards? I mean, who's inviting who to their place for a drink…" Peter definitely feels tingly. He didn't think it took so little to start feeling inebriated when he drank at the Halloween party.

Tony snorts and props a foot up on the coffee table, knee bent. "Just don't expect me to show you my garters any time soon, Parker." He gazes at Peter with a twinkle in his eyes and a wry smile on his lips that does something strange to Peter's stomach.

Then he bursts out laughing. "That was inappropriate, I'm sorry." He shakes his head, not looking sorry at all.

He looks amused; happy, even. His eyes crinkle at the corners. Peter's chest swells at the thought of being responsible for that. The feeling in his gut is tugging him closer to that smile, telling him to lean in and—

Peter's eyes go wide. His brain tunes to static.

He wants to  _kiss_  Tony.

Peter feels hot and cold in quick succession. The thought of Tony's lips—God, his  _mouth_ —and his stubble, rubbing against Peter's face—makes him flush with warmth, then frozen in terror. He's never kissed a man (or  _anyone_ ), never  _wanted_  to kiss a man, even if he's wondered sometimes, especially about his fixation on Han Solo when he was younger but he has to keep his mind on track because Tony is sitting  _right there_ , relaxed with his legs slightly spread, right where he could reach out and touch Peter like he did earlier, maybe stroke his hair and push him back against the cushions with his large strong hands and put his mouth over Peter's—

"Kid? You okay?"

Peter's throat is too tight to speak. He's sweating through his suit. He's not sure what his face is betraying so he stares down at his glass.

"Uh." He clears his throat. Twice. "Yup. Good," he rasps. "Just. Little tired. Guess it's the scotch."

"Oh." Tony's voice sounds surprisingly subdued. His posture stiffens. "Uh, look, I'm sorry I said that, dunno what I was thinking," he mutters.

It takes Peter a second to make sense of the apology. "Oh, no, Tony, that's not it at all! It's fine!" His voice sounds too high in his own ears. "I'm just—tired."

Tony glances sideways at him, uncertain. He looks exhausted suddenly, bruises under his eyes that weren't noticeable moments ago. Peter hates that. He wants to see Tony smile again. He wonders if he'd smile if he kissed him.

No, probably not.

"Thank you, Tony, for the—" He raises his glass. He can't recall the name of the scotch. He can't recall much of anything, at the moment, because Tony is still just inches away and his knee has fallen against Peter's and he's watching him so carefully, and his lips are slightly parted and red and full and Peter needs to think about something else—

_Avogadro's number is 6.022 times ten to the twenty-third._

There. He remembered something.

"Any time. Well, not any time, no, that was the point—don't make it a habit, right?" Tony claps him on the back.

"Right," Peter wheezes.

_Planck's constant is 6.626 times ten to the negative thirty-fo—_

Tony squeezes his neck lightly and the sensation shoots through Peter like it never has before, like there's a mainline from Tony's hand to his groin— _pi is 3.14159, uh, 2? Shit—_ and God, he has to get out of here, he has to get away from the warmth of him, his  _smell_ —

"Okay, good night Mr. Stark!" He shoots up from the couch. He thinks he blurts out something about the scotch, and that Tony says something back, but he's not even sure at this point. He makes a beeline to the corridor.

He doesn't stop to catch his breath until he's in his room with the door securely shut behind him.

He flops down on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

He wants to  _kiss_  Tony Stark. Or maybe he wants Tony to kiss him, maybe a little roughly, up against a wall or—

He runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.

Where the hell did this come from?

It can't just be the whiskey; he didn't even have that much, for him. But he's never thought of Tony like this before tonight. He racks his brain, poring over past interactions—and suddenly nothing looks the same.

The nervous thrill of having Tony Stark in his bedroom for the first time; the skipped heartbeat when Tony locked the door behind them.

His confusion and eagerness the first time Tony hugged him—or got the door for him, whichever it really was.

His sinking disappointment when he realized he was speaking to a hollow suit and not the man himself.

His awe at seeing the man in an impeccably tailored suit—now the cloth kind—and sunglasses only he could pull off, striding towards him, putting an arm around him, offering him a place by his side and the most beautiful technological creation Peter had ever laid eyes on, made just for him. How hard it had been to say no.

The elation when Tony did finally make him a member of the team with an unofficial knighting. The pride, the feeling of purpose and security he had working alongside him even as they hurtled through deep space to face the enemy head-on.

The clench in his stomach when he found Tony lying wounded on the rubble. And what came after.

How badly he needed Tony in that moment, needed to feel him, needed Tony to hold him because he was so scared and he needed to tell him so much but he couldn't, all he could do was apologize—

_Quick. Painless. Like falling asleep._

More like a nightmare. Peter wants to sob. It's not fair.

He wishes Tony were here now, wishes his arms were around him like they were then, only this time he could stay there for as long as he wanted and he could touch the man's skin, feel the prickle of his beard and his hot breath on his cheek; maybe Tony would press a kiss to his forehead, soft and warm, stroke his hair…

Peter's chest hurts. He wraps his arms around himself, but they're poor substitutes for the arms he's imagining.

This isn't just lust, he realizes.

He's  _in love_  with Tony.

It punches the air out of his lungs. He can't believe it, it shouldn't be possible— _he's a man—Iron Man is basically your dad_ — _31 years older—playboy philanthropist billionaire genius_ —but there's no denying it. All the signs point that way:

     1. Peter likes it when Tony looks at him.

     2. Peter likes it when Tony touches him.

     3. 1 and 2 also make Peter nervous as hell, in a way a fatherly look or touch really wouldn't. It's the feeling of being around a crush.

     4. But it's more than a crush, because the best feeling is when Peter makes Tony smile. He wants to make Tony smile every day.

     5. He wants to do more than make him smile. He wants to see the worry seep from his brow, wants to see his eyes shine with contentment, wants to make him forget, make him… feel  _good._

     6. Peter can think of a lot of ways to make Tony feel good. Most of them make him too flustered to name, even in his head.

     7. And most importantly, no one makes him feel safe like Tony does. May wishes she could, Peter knows, but she can only do so much. Only Tony understands, only Tony knows what really happened. Only Tony hurts as much as he does, and only Tony can make it better. Only Tony can make him feel  _real_.

The evidence is incontrovertible: he's hopelessly in love with Tony Stark.

Peter's mind turns in circles, and each time ends up back at that irrefutable, astonishing fact. When he's finally exhausted himself enough to drift into sleep, he's still in his suit, on top of his covers, holding himself as tightly as he wishes Tony would.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony wakes with a raging hangover. He's on his couch in a rumpled suit, cradling the empty bottle of Yamazaki.

He curses and pulls himself into a seated position—he swore he'd stop finishing bottles that were more than half full on his own—before he notices the second glass on the coffee table. He frowns, concentrating.

Last night. He'd been talking to Rhodey. He decided to extricate himself when his friend commented disapprovingly on his champagne intake, and he'd ended up…

 _Peter._  Right. He found Peter, and they'd gone outside, then… come back here?

Tony's stomach twists into a knot. He's not sure why the idea of being alone with Peter, and not remembering what happened, scares him so much. It's not as though anything…  _bad_ could have happened.

_Bad? Care to elaborate, Tony?_

No, he decides, he does not care to. In fact, the queasiness he's feeling is probably mostly due to the scotch, and the fact that he provided a sixteen-year-old with alcohol. Which is illegal and bad. That was the extent of last night's… badness.

_In your private quarters._

He tells the voice in his head to shut up. It sounds too much like Rhodey for his liking.

He rubs a hand down his face and massages his temples, attempting to keep the looming headache at bay.

He glances at the time. 10:26. Peter might not have left with Happy yet.

Tony decides, without consciously debating it, to wait for Peter to leave before venturing from his room.

The thought of running into him in the hallway or kitchen makes Tony jittery. He isn't sure how Peter would react to him. What if he freaked the kid out last night? It wasn't really normal, after all, bringing him back to his room for a drink. He knew that. Peter probably knew it too. God, what was he thinking?

An image flashes through his mind of Peter on the couch next to him in his too-large suit, pink-cheeked and nervous, clutching his scotch glass. His hair a little mussed—Tony remembers running his fingers through it. His stomach clenches harder.

But that, that could be a fatherly thing to do. To stroke a child's hair. Very parental. May probably does that to Peter all the time. Just… not while they're drinking scotch together.

And she's his aunt. Tony is an unrelated adult male.

_You're not acting like a mentor. And you're sure as hell not acting like a father._

Tony swallows down the bile rising in his throat.

_You're acting like you do with a fan. Like you want to impress him._

Only, that's not exactly it, either, is it? Tony's never invited a fan to his room for a drink. Not any fan he didn't want to fuck, that is.

He presses a hand to his mouth. He thinks he really might be sick.

He rushes to the bathroom and kneels over the toilet, only to dry heave a few times before giving up and sinking down to hug the bowl. It's been a long time since he was this violently ill from a hangover. He's too old for this shit.

Tony rises shakily to his feet. He manages the few steps to the sink without keeling over, and grips the edge of the counter till his knuckles show white.

The horrifying realization is creeping up on him that the way he treated Peter last night was exactly how he treated so many one-night-stands in his younger days. How many times had he singled out the attractive one in the crowd, at this or that party or conference, zeroed in on her, lavishing her with attention and flattery until the suggestion— _wanna get out of here?_  Back to his hotel room or the Malibu mansion for a drink, then the bedroom. A foolproof step-by-step that got him laid more than nine times out of ten.

Save for the final step, how was what he'd done with Peter last night any different?

 _It was different,_  he tells himself,  _because you had no intention of going to that last step._

… _Right?_

"That's not even a question!" he blurts out aloud, staring at himself in the mirror. His heart is pounding.

His reflection looks like a guilty man. He turns the cold tap on full blast and splashes his face.

It  _isn't_ a question. His own mind is just trying to sabotage him, as per usual. Like it does whenever it inserts an image of Peter into his dreams, staring up at him with wide, liquid eyes, whispering  _it's good when you touch me—_

No, no. He's always played devil's advocate with himself. He just needs to take a deep breath and look at the facts.

Peter isn't some anonymous, busty blonde he met at a party. He's not looking for…  _gratification_  from the boy. The thought makes him shudder.

He  _cares_  about Peter. He was only trying to look out for him last night, make sure he had a decent time. And something had been bothering the kid…

Tony frowns, remembering what had prompted him to offer the drink in the first place. Peter had seemed preoccupied. Tony only wanted to get his mind off things. Maybe he should ask Peter about it, later.

On the other hand, Tony prying into Peter's issues might not be such a good idea. The last time he'd asked him what was wrong, Peter started talking about… Things Tony Refuses To Think About. They're neatly labeled in a locked safe he keeps at the back of his mind.

Tony looks down at his hands. What good is he to the kid if he can't help him when he needs it most? What good is he if his idea of providing comfort is plying Peter with scotch?

_I wanted you to be better._

Peter won't end up better like this. Not with Tony around to drag him down into his own self-defeating ways.

_You break everything you touch._

He closes his eyes. Maybe Rhodey was right. Maybe he does do the kid more harm than good. He wishes he could remember more of last night. Maybe he said something helpful somewhere, gave some good, fatherly advice—

_Mr. Parker, you're trying to seduce me._

His eyes fly open. Did he—oh God, did he actually say that? His heart is racing again, his stomach threatening mutiny.

Suddenly it all snaps into place. Peter's response— _don't you have it backwards?_  Tony runs a trembling hand down his face. His mouth is dry.

How is it that he never notices how things look until after the fact? Because Peter was entirely right. Whose mind wouldn't jump to that conclusion if they saw Tony leave the party with Peter and take him back to his room? What if someone walked in and found them on the couch drinking scotch, saw Tony petting Peter's hair, a 48-year-old-man alone with a 16-year-old  _kid—_

 _But it's not what it looks like_ , he pleads with himself. He doesn't have  _designs_  on Peter. He's not some pervert, a predator, he's not grooming him,  _he doesn't want that from him—_

_Would May Parker believe you? Or Maria Hill? Rhodey? …What about Peter? He's the one who said it. What message are you sending him?_

Tony looks to himself in the mirror, as if casting about for support. All he finds is the tired, scared face of a middle-aged man.

Maybe, he should keep his distance from Peter for a while. Just in case.

…

Tony is away on business for most of the month. Peter supposes he should be happy that the man is keeping busy, returning to the duties at S.I. that he's neglected for so long. But he can't help but feel that it must be purposeful. Like maybe Tony could sense Peter's realization, and it's scared him off.

It puts a pain in Peter's chest to think too hard about it. Despite his recent revelation, above all else he simply wants to continue to work with Tony, to see him regularly. He doesn't want to jeopardize that, because he knows, of course, Tony will never feel the same.

Unless… Peter can't stop turning over certain moments from the past several months in his mind, examining them from all possible angles. Especially what happened at the party.

Peter is used to Tony's brand of physicality by now, but surely even for him a hand on the small of the back can't be insignificant? He wouldn't have done that if he weren't even a little bit interested, would he? Even just subconsciously, maybe?

But no, adults did that to younger people. It was a protective, guiding gesture. The way Tony had rubbed his hand low on Peter's back could have been merely comforting. But didn't it also seem… possessive? Or is he reading too much into it?

But then there was his suggestion to drink together, alone, in his room. Peter instinctively knows not to tell anyone about that, and it's not only because he isn't old enough to drink; it's because of the intimacy of the situation. Even though he and Tony spend a lot of time alone together, they've never done anything quite like that. The sort of thing that adults do together. The sort of thing couples do.

Or the sort of thing a father might do with a son; giving him his first drink, man-to-man. But a father wouldn't say  _Mr. Parker, you're tying to seduce me._

It still makes Peter's ears red to remember Tony's voice, smooth and dark, as he said those words. On the one hand, it was simply yet another old pop culture reference, but surely, it didn't have to be one so… loaded? One from a movie about a young man having an illicit affair with a much older partner? The fact has to have crossed Tony's mind, at the least.

But what does it all mean? Is Tony… flirting with him? Does Tony want that from him?

The thought makes Peter's stomach twist in terrible and wonderful ways. It genuinely frightens a part of him to think that the man might actually want to… do  _things_ , with him,  _to_ him, but the larger part of him can't stop his thrilled shivers at the idea of Tony touching him, kissing him,  _wanting_  him. Peter flusters himself just thinking about Tony's eyes, staring at him from under hooded lids, or his tongue, languidly wetting pink lips.

It's so strange. He's never felt close to this way about a man before. Peter wonders if all his previous crushes on girls were real after all, or if they were merely imitations of how he thought he was supposed to feel. He thinks the attraction he felt for Liz was real, after all those days of pining, but it was nothing compared to how utterly powerless he is in the face of everything he feels for Tony. Peter doesn't know if he'll even be able to act normal around the man, when they come face to face.

Which is why maybe it's a good thing, he thinks, that he hasn't seen Tony since that night. He's sure he would give something away if he were in the man's presence, and then everything would be ruined because why on earth would Tony ever feel the same about Peter—about someone 31 years younger, with no experience, just an awkward high schooler?

_He thinks you're a kid. You are a kid._

_Iron Man is basically your dad._

No, Peter's definitely not ready to face him just yet.

At the same time, Tony's sudden absence has made clear what an integral, time-consuming part of Peter's life he's become over the past months. Without his after-school visits to the apartment, and his weekend stays at the compound cut down to one night—Commander Hill allowed it, considering there isn't much for him to do without Tony—Peter is spending more time at home and around Queens than he has in months.

It makes May happy to have him home more, and that's the only thing stopping Peter from using every extra minute for patrolling. It's hard to see her like that, though, when Peter can't share in her happiness. It's the same with Ned; he invites Peter over, and Peter can't refuse. He listens to Ned complain about their AP Bio teacher, and rave about the videogame console he wants for Christmas. He nods along, but none of it enthuses him like it once would have.

The worst part is, they both tread so carefully around him. He knows they can sense his malaise; they notice that his smiles don't reach his eyes as often as they should. He just wishes they could go on like normal, instead of going out of their way to be nice, peppering him with suggestions to cheer him up: a surprise dinner at his and May's favorite Thai place, not on their usual night out. A trip to the Museum of Natural History with Ned, which was one of their favorite places as kids but where they haven't visited in years. Peter almost tells Ned he's reaching way too hard, but the hope in his friend's eyes makes him hold his tongue and agree with a smile.

None of it helps, of course, because he can't tell them what's really on his mind. He can't tell them that half the universe was wiped from existence, and furthermore, he was apparently the only person for whom dying was a painful, drawn-out experience.

It was easy for the others to die. Nothing that would hurt too much to remember;  _like falling asleep_. But for Peter—no such luck. Just another tic of his spider biology: he got to feel every cell disintegrate, had the time to realize what was happening, to know full well he was going to die at sixteen years of age and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Just enough time to cling to the person he had failed, but not enough time to say goodbye.

He dreams of dying in slow motion, again and again. He dreams of Tony's face, watching the entire time. He tries to touch Tony's cheek, but he's never fast enough. His hand always disappears before he can reach him.

He feels like he's coming apart at the seams, and he needs Tony to hold him together.

He just wants to be back in the lab. He wants to be back with Tony.

Tony doesn't kill him with kindness, doesn't put on a sweet smile to mask his concern. He cares, but he also understands what's wrong. That it can't be fixed with rest and relaxation, quality family time or fun excursions. Tony wouldn't judge him for throwing himself into his work. And if he heard about the dreams, he'd simply nod in understanding.

More often than he'll admit, Peter pulls his blankets tight around him at night and imagines they're Tony's arms. And sometimes, when he's too pent up and desperate to hold out, he touches himself and imagines it's Tony: his large, rough hands, the prickle of his mustache on Peter's ear as he whispers sweet nothings and words of encouragement. It feels sinfully good in the moment, the thought of being taken care of like that; but the guilt is crushing afterwards. Tony would be mortified if he ever knew.

Peter thinks of calling Tony, but he can't work up the nerve. He's sure he'd make a fool of himself; what would be his pretense for calling, anyway? Some science question he could make up? Tony would probably see right through it, like he did with the web-shooters.

Peter wishes Tony would call, so the decision and the onus of justification wouldn't lie with him. It didn't even have to be a video chat—just audio, so he could hear the man's voice. It might be too much to see him, even on a phone screen.

There are no calls, though. Only radio silence.

Until Christmas day.

Peter has been in the living room with May since exchanging presents that morning. They're cuddled up on the couch watching  _It's a Wonderful Life_  and  _Elf_ , as per tradition. Peter gets up to grab his phone charger from his room.

As soon as he opens his door, he sees it: a garment bag hanging from the railing of his top bunk, wrapped entirely in glossy red paper and golden ribbon, not even attempting subtlety. Peter doesn't have to read the tag to know whom it's from, or what it is. He reads it anyways.

"For an appropriate occasion. Merry Xmas. –TS" in Tony's neat black scrawl.

Peter traces the letters with his finger, his heart pounding. Tony remembered.

He probably remembered much more about that night than just his promise to get Peter a suit.

Red-faced, Peter tears away the paper with shaking hands and unzips the sleek black garment bag.

His mouth falls open.

Inside is a steel-gray three-piece suit. The material has a subtle sheen to it; it looks expensive. Under the suit hangs a black button-down that looks like it's made of the same fabric as Tony's dress shirts, and a black tie that has to be silk.

Peter doesn't think twice before he's stripping off his sweats and trying it on.

"Peter?" May calls from the living room. "Everything alright in there?"

"Yeah, yeah! I'll be there in a moment!" he calls back as he fastens the pants.

It only takes him two tries to knot the tie correctly. He buttons up the waistcoat and takes a moment to admire it in the mirror on the back of his door. He doesn't think he wears it quite as well as Tony, but it looks good. He slips on the jacket.

The whole ensemble fits like a dream. Tony's measurements are perfect. The thought sends a pleasurable warmth to his gut.

He thinks of Tony picking out the suit: the cut, the colors, making sure the fit would be just right. He knows it's pathetic, but the thought makes his eyes sting. It's as if a bit of Tony is wrapped around him, hugging his skin—the way he thinks of the Spider-Man suit sometimes, when he's feeling too lonely.

"Peter! Come on, Jovie's about to start singing to the crowd in Central Park!"

"Coming!" he chokes out.

He slips on his best pair of shoes and smooths his hair back in the mirror. He notices the bags under his eyes with a grimace, but there's nothing he can do about those now.

He pads down the hallway to the living room and hesitates in the entryway with a self-conscious  _ahem_.

May glances up. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head.

"What are you wearing?" She laughs incredulously.

"Um, it's from Tony," Peter responds, as if that's sufficient explanation for the sudden and drastic wardrobe change.

May blinks; a cloud passes over her brow. She collects herself quickly and stands up to get a closer look.

"Wow," she says, taking him in. "You… look all grown up."

Peter doesn't miss the troubled look in her eye, even as she smiles at him.

"You'll have to be sure to thank Mr. Stark very much, won't you, Peter?"

"Y-yes! Of course!" Peter nods. He feels like his aunt is looking straight through him. He avoids her gaze.

May whistles, eyeing the suit again. "That… must be an expensive suit," she mutters, almost to herself.

Peter swallows. He nods again. "He is a billionaire," he says with a laugh, trying to make light of it.

"Mmm."

May's expression shifts suddenly. She looks—sad? Peter wasn't expecting that.

She smiles tightly. "Guess it's about time you had a new suit anyway. Your old one doesn't quite keep up with that crowd, huh?"

Oh. Now Peter feels like shit. He hadn't even considered how May would feel about Tony giving him things she usually provided—the everyday, normal, non-super hero things.

"Oh, May, no, that's not it! He just wanted to—"

"No, no, it's fine! It's good, in fact. It's very thoughtful of him," she says firmly.

She places her hands on his shoulders resolutely and looks him over once more. "Well, it certainly fits you right." She frowns. "The black tie on black shirt combo is a little somber for my tastes. But you don't have to tell Mr. Stark that." She winks.

Peter shakes his head. "I won't," he says earnestly.

May looks at him a moment longer and sighs. "Now. Why don't you get out of this—hang it up  _neatly_ —and back into your comfy things and we can finish this movie, hm?" She smiles encouragingly.

Peter nods. "Okay."

He goes to his room. Before he undresses, he snaps a few pictures in his mirror and chooses the best one. May was right; he does look grown up in the suit.

He sends the picture to Tony with a text.

_Thank you so much Tony! Fits perfect_

_Merry Christmas!_

It's only as he's meticulously placing each item back on its hanger that he realizes he doesn't have anything to give Tony. He frowns. He can't think of anything the man could possibly need—at least, not that Peter could give him.

He wonders what sort of gifts his friends get him for Christmas.

Peter blinks. How does Tony even spend his Christmases?

Peter feels guilty for not wondering before. He doesn't like the idea of the man being alone for the holiday.

His phone vibrates.

_Knew it would. You're welcome kid._

Peter bites his lip, hesitating before tapping out:

_How's your Christmas going? Hope you're not working_

He finishes putting the suit away before an answer arrives.

_Not the worst way to spend it, if you ask me. But Rhodey won't let me work on Christmas. I'm with him and his family._

_Give my regards to your aunt._

Peter supposes he'll have to be content with that, for now.

 _Will do_ , he types out, then thinks for a moment and adds:  _See you soon._

…

Tony must be dreaming. There's no other explanation for why Peter Parker would be peering down at him with wide, uncertain eyes, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth—nope, definitely dreaming. Tony's been dreaming a lot about Peter, these days.

He closes his eyes again.

"Uh, Tony?"

Tony opens one eye. Why is dream Peter hovering over him and not lying down in his arms, or stroking his beard or any of the other things dream Peter usually does—though that's probably for the best, since Tony really doesn't need to hear  _it's good when you touch me_ again or awaken with another guilty, confusing boner.

Tony blinks. Peter hasn't moved. The kid gives a small smile. "Hey."

"Hey," says Tony groggily. Weird dream. He makes to turn over and find a more comfortable position, but is stopped by something bulky and hard pressing into his side. He frowns and reaches for it.

An empty bottle. Stuck between the cushions of his Ceccotti couch.

Tony whips his head back towards Peter. He notices for the first time that the kid is in his Spider-Man suit, holding his mask tightly in his hands.

"Kid. What are you doing here." Panic rises in Tony's chest.

"Uh, I just wanted to stop by and—"

"Wait, scratch that,  _how_  did you even—F.R.I.D.A.Y.?"

"Yes, boss," comes the A.I.'s peppy voice.

"Why did you let the kid in here?"

Peter seems to deflate at that. Tony doesn't care. He has a headache, even the subdued glow of the overhead light fixtures is too bright, he reeks of whiskey and Peter  _really_  can't be here right now.

"Because he asked."

Tony raises his eyebrows expectantly. F.R.I.D.A.Y. seems to take the cue, because she elaborates: "Peter Parker has full security clearances at this location, boss. Under the Inner Sanctum protocol, anyone whom you have granted free access to your workshop gains Level 2 clearances by default."

Tony groans, dragging a hand over his face. He should have seen that coming. He makes a mental note to amend the protocol. "We're having a talk about this later."

"Would you like me to put that on the schedule, boss?"

Tony rolls his eyes and doesn't respond to the A.I.

Peter is still standing there awkwardly, his eyes flitting around the room and taking in what is sure to be an undignified sight. Tony sighs and heaves himself up to a seated position. Peter's eyes fall back on him.

He's staring at his chest.

Tony inhales sharply through his nose and pulls his robe closed. He's never been self-conscious about his scar, but it feels too intimate for Peter to see it like this, while he's fully clothed in his super suit and Tony's in boxers and a bathrobe.

He clears his throat, rubs his neck to work out a bad kink. "Well, you're here now. What do you want."

Peter shifts back and forth. "I just wanted to—um, actually, could I…" he points uncertainly down the hallway, "go, get changed? Don't want to, uh, mess up your couch."

Tony sighs and waves his hand in concession. Peter disappears down the hallway.

Tony knows Peter doesn't actually care about the couch. He's giving him time. Time to pull himself together, get the room in some semblance of order. Not because Peter hasn't seen it all already, but for Tony's sake. He feels a surge of affection towards the kid.

He makes quick work of the bottles strewn about, but can't do much for the smell of whiskey rising up from where he's sloshed a considerable amount onto the rug. He grimaces. Solitary holiday drinking is always the worst.

Tony uses the nearest bathroom to splash his face and fluff up his hair from its pathetically matted state. He looks barely more human for it. He rinses his mouth, gulps down a glass of water. That's all he has time for before Peter returns, wearing the same t-shirt and sweats he's donned a number of times he's come over in the suit.

They sit on the sofa. Peter brings his feet up under him so he can turn towards Tony, who has squeezed himself as far against the armrest as he can get, knees and shoulders facing forward. He keeps his hands stubbornly in his lap, all too cognizant of the lines he crossed last time they were on a couch together.

Tony is too tired for pretense. He doesn't have a quip to lighten the mood. He's sure it would fall flat, anyway.

"What are you doing here, kid."

"I wanted to see you," Peter says softly, uncertain. "Say thank you."

"I hear cards are good for that."

Peter doesn't respond, and Tony knows it was an asshole answer. He sighs and adds, "But, you're welcome. I actually had some fun picking out just the right thing."

"It's perfect."

"I know."

Silence. Tony slips his eyes shut, runs a hand through his hair.

"How'd you know I wouldn't still be at Rhodey's?" he mutters.

"You don't really seem the type who sticks around other people's happy family gatherings, to be honest."

Tony grunts. "Fair."

"How long have you been here?"

"At this apartment or on this couch? Either way, actually, since about 5:42 yesterday evening."

"You didn't stay for Christmas dinner with them?"

"Nah. Their big thing is lunch. Dinner's more an intimate family affair. I split."  _And came back here to start drinking_ , is what he doesn't need to say.

Peter hums. Tony's eyes are still closed, his head resting on the back of the couch as he wills away the migraine forming behind his eyes.

"I don't have anything for you," Peter mumbles, quieter still.

"It's okay, kid."

After a long moment Tony sighs deeply through his nose. He turns his head towards Peter and cracks his eyes open.

"You know, you really didn't have to come all the way over here just to thank me. It's the day after Christmas; you should be with your aunt. It's a holiday, actually, over in Brit-land. Canada too, maybe—Boxing Day? You got things to box, Parker? Sounds like the kind of holiday those stuffy Victorians would come up with, doesn't it. A whole day, just to put your shit in boxes. Fun for the whole family."

Peter is staring down at the couch; he doesn't seem to be listening. Tony can't blame him. He sighs again.

"Kid."

Peter's brown eyes dart up to meet his. They're round and too sad, too nervous for Tony's liking.

"What did you tell your aunt, huh? Tell her you were coming here?"

Peter bites his lip and shakes his head. "Told her I was going to Ned's. Work on a new Lego set he got for Christmas."

"What is it this time?  _Enterprise_?  _Millennium Falcon_?"

"Oh, uh, no, I made it up. I mean, maybe he got a Lego set. I don't know."

"That's what you should be doing."

"What?" Peter's brow furrows.

"Building Legos. With Ned."

It's Peter's turn to sigh. "Not really in the mood for that." He hesitates, as though weighing whether he should say his next words. Finally, he rushes out, "Imissedyou."

Tony's chest clenches. He considers asking  _what?_  as though he hadn't caught the words, as though he could have possibly mistaken them. But that would mean either having to listen to Peter take them back—and no, he really doesn't want that—or repeat them, and the latter might be the worse option at the moment.

What has Peter missed, he wonders. Tinkering in the lab? His stimulating conversation? Or maybe the little things. A touch on the shoulder.

_It's good when you touch me._

Tony really has to get that line out of his head. It's not as though the kid meant it… the way that it sounded. As he's sternly reminded his subconscious on multiple occasions when he's woken up in a cold sweat from what's best described as a Frankenstein hybrid between a nightmare and a wet dream.

His dreams about Peter can go one of two ways. There are the dreams where they're working companionably in the lab, or just hanging around the kitchen at the compound. Tony is talking and Peter responding, laughing at his jokes maybe, and then—silence. Tony turns and Peter is gone. He walks the empty corridors, calling Peter's name. Everything is eerily still. He goes through a doorway—and suddenly he's surrounded by the dusty, apocalyptic landscape of Titan. Alone.

The other dreams—the ones that have been bothering him more recently—start the same way. But when Tony turns, instead of finding Peter gone, he's right there in front of him, too close, asking to be touched and  _what do you want, Tony_  and Peter's hands are trailing down his arms and chest and Tony tries to back away because even his dream-self knows this isn't appropriate—but he can't move. Sometimes, Peter's hands and lips venture into dangerous territory before Tony is able to force himself awake in a panic. Other times, Peter dissolves in the midst of an embrace, leaving Tony shamefully aroused and horrified. He's not sure which ending is worse.

He blames his realization after the party, his fear that he's been sending Peter the wrong signals. Of course his mind would use that against him. God, his subconscious is an asshole.

But the boy on the couch next to him isn't the Peter from his dreams, Tony reminds himself. He's real, he has real needs and feelings, and Tony's been selfishly ignoring him. Peter just needs comfort.

_Sometimes, I don't feel real._

Has Peter been feeling not real? A pang of guilt shoots through him for staying away so long.

He almost reaches out for Peter's shoulder—but he doesn't. His hand stays in his lap.

It dawns on him that Peter is still waiting for his response. Peter has missed him.

Tony clears his throat. His lips twitch humorlessly. "You sure about that? C'mon, Pete. Not much to miss. You saw…" He gestures vaguely and sighs. "Not gonna sugarcoat it for you, kid. It's been rough."

"Been rough for me, too," says Peter in a small voice. He's picking absentmindedly at a thread trailing from the ankle of the old sweatpants he's wearing. A pair of Tony's from MIT.

Tony follows the movement with a furrow in his brow. He thought he would make things better by giving Peter some space, putting a stop to any unintentional signals he may have been sending. Maybe he's only made things worse though, as so many of his brilliant solutions seem to.

"It's just. Y'know. Been at home more," Peter continues. "I know May means well, but. It's just hard, sometimes."

Tony finds himself nodding in understanding.

"And then, the holidays, the break from school, family gatherings—it's just. Everyone's in such a good mood, and, I feel like something must be wrong with me because I just. Can't be."

Tony's chest aches for the kid. He hates how much he can relate.

Then, Peter adds softly, "It's like after Ben died, all over again."

Tony forgets to breathe for a moment. He's never heard Peter talk about his uncle.

He draws breath when the burn in his chest becomes too much. Before he can overthink about what he's going to say, he opens his mouth.

"My parents died near Christmas."

Peter blinks up at him in surprise.

Tony grimaces. "Holiday was never really the same."

Peter holds his gaze for a moment, warm and sympathetic. Tony has to look away. Why did he have to bring up his parents?

"Did—" Peter starts, then hesitates. Tony eyes him questioningly.

Peter gathers himself and proceeds; "did the Avengers ever celebrate Christmas together?"

Tony snorts with amusement. "No, it wasn't like that. Although. One year, we did have a sort of… holiday party. Even exchanged a few presents. Just as jokes, you know." He chuckles at the memory. "First time I realized what a sly sense of humor Rogers could have. He got me this—" Tony breaks off, his gut clenching. His throat closes up.

Apparently he still can't talk about Steve. Just remembering his perfectly straight, white smile makes Tony want to sink back to the bottom of a bottle. He wishes he could erase that face from his memory. Not the stern Captain America face, cool eyes gazing out from behind the cowl. No; specifically, the infectiously joyful face of a content, care-free Steve Rogers. The face only his closest friends had the privilege of seeing. Tony wishes he could forget that.

Peter's quiet voice pulls him from his reverie.

"I'm sorry I'm not him."

Tony frowns, looks at the kid. Peter's eyes are downcast, his lips twisted with upset. It makes a vice clench around Tony's heart.

"I'm sorry I'm not… any of them," Peter continues timorously.

"What? Kid, why would you say that?"

"It's just—" Peter swallows, clearly having trouble regulating his voice. "They died to save me. I mean, not just me, I know that, but—still. If they hadn't—I mean, I'd be gone, but you'd still have them. But instead, I'm here, and they're not, and it just—" Peter's voice has gone hoarse with emotion. "It must seem like a pretty lousy exchange."

Tony's veins turn to ice.

"Oh, Pete. No." He finds himself shaking his head. "No, no, that's not—don't you ever, ever think—if you think for one second that I'd give you up to have one of them—hell, to have all of them back—well." He swallows. "You'll just have to think again."

Tony himself is surprised by the earnestness in his voice. But the thought of Peter being— _gone_ , still, even if everyone else were alive—No. Tony can't even bring himself to consider it. It was painful enough for the short period before they were able to correct the damage the Gauntlet had wrought. He can't let the kid think he would ever want to live through that again.

Peter is gazing at him with wide, awed and hopeful eyes. He's leaning close, and his position, the look on his face, are just a little too similar to some of Tony's dreams for comfort.

He rises from the couch and wanders towards the window, taking in the city lights. "They made their choices, Pete. They all knew any mission could be their last. They had a good run." They're words Tony has told himself, over and over, until they sound meaningless. He hopes they don't feel as hollow to Peter as they do to him.

He glances over his shoulder at the kid, watching him from the couch. He sighs. "You're so young, Pete. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

Peter frowns at that, like they aren't the words he hoped to hear.

Tony turns back to the window. "You're gonna do great things, kid."

Suddenly, there's a presence beside him. Tony glances at Peter in surprise; he didn't even hear him walking up.

"Tony?" Peter sounds nervous, but suddenly it's Tony's heart that's beating too fast. Peter is standing closer than he needs to be.

"Hm?" He doesn't trust his voice with more than that.

"Can I—can I see it?"

Tony blinks. "See what?"

"Your—uh, the scar." Peter is blushing. He isn't meeting Tony's eyes anymore, which makes the proximity a little easier to bear.

Tony hesitates. There's something uncomfortable wriggling through his gut. "Why would you wanna see that, Pete?"

"Well, uh, I've never seen it, I mean, not up close, and, it's just—it's like, a part of you, right? A really important part." The tips of his ears are reddening as he stares at Tony's chest, as though he could see through the satin robe if he tried hard enough. "I mean. Unless you—if it's too private, I get that—"

"Just scar tissue, kid. I'm not sentimental about it. Not that impressive, really."

Peter huffs in frustration. "But, scars are more than that. I mean—they're records. They tell stories. Of what you've survived."

"Yeah, I don't really go in for that warm gushy 'be proud of your scars' stuff—"

"But I don't have any scars!" Peter bursts out. His eyes are locked with Tony's again. They have a new desperation behind them.

Tony blinks. "And…?"

Peter sighs. "Don't you get it? I should be covered in scars. But I'm not. I heal too fast, or too well, or something. Even—even the scars I had before the bite. They disappeared when I—changed."

Peter looks mournful. "Like this one I had on my knee, from a bad fall in second grade. Ben took me to the playground, and I was trying to see how far I could jump from the swing. He told me to be careful, but I went too high and jumped, landed on all fours and messed up my right knee real bad. I said I never wanted to get on a swing again, but… Ben talked to me. He said that falling down was a part of life, and that the important part is getting back up, learning from what you did wrong—knowing your limits, but also knowing you can survive failure. And the scar would be a reminder of that."

Peter swallows. Tony feels a strong urge to wrap him in his arms, but he doesn't. There's a voice in the back of his head saying it would be a bad idea.

Peter looks at him with shimmering eyes. He's not going to cry, and Tony's grateful for that, but the emotion still makes Tony's breath catch.

"It's like… that never even happened, now. Like, nothing is real enough to leave a mark. So, just, can I see yours?" It comes out as almost a whisper.

And really, there's no question how Tony will respond. He can't refuse the pleading, lost look Peter is giving him.

"Sure," he says, slightly breathless.

One second later, he's really wishing he considered his answer more carefully, because suddenly Peter's hands are at the belt of his robe—this has definitely happened in a dream—and then its falling open, exposing his chest and stomach to the cool air and Tony really regrets his choice of nothing but silk boxers for his bottom layer and there's no way this is appropriate, he should close his robe and back away and probably tell Peter to go home—

But Peter only has eyes for the scar in the middle of his chest. Tony barely dares breathe as Peter takes it in with something akin to awe, something wistful and yearning.

Peter lifts two fingers and slowly, gingerly, traces them along the edge of the skin graft. It sends a warm jolt through Tony; the writhing in his gut grows more insistent. He lets it happen.

"Does it hurt?" Peter wonders.

"No," Tony replies, and his voice sounds too low, too intimate in his ears. He watches Peter's face, his downturned lashes exaggerated by the angle. "It's sort of numb, actually."

Peter's fingers press slightly harder into the tissue. "Can you feel my fingers?" He sounds curious, innocent.

Tony swallows. "I can feel the pressure."

Peter hums thoughtfully. His face has the expression it takes on when he's puzzling a particularly intractable problem in the lab. He slides his fingers over to the edge of the scar, and just past it, to Tony's pectoral, just over his heart.

Tony's breath hitches. Peter must be able to feel how accelerated his heart rate is, has probably been able to hear it this whole time.

"But here it's normal?"

Tony nods jerkily. "Yup."

He clears his throat; he's not sure where this is going, but it's probably nowhere good for his mutinous psyche.

He's just about to pull away when Peter gasps quietly. His hand moves from Tony's chest down to his side, where his eyes have fallen on the scar Tony received on Titan. When an alien god used his own technology to impale him, and Tony looked into his eyes and was certain he was going to die.

He feels a chill run down his spine as Peter's fingers trace the silvery, jagged line, his eyes clouded and distant, like he's remembering, too.

Tony knows he should move, should say something— _that's quite enough of that, now, kid—_ but he's frozen. Peter's face is tight, his brow furrowed, and Tony feels it would somehow be cruel to pull away in the middle of whatever is going through his head.

Peter opens his mouth to speak. His lip trembles. "I—I'm just really glad you're alive," he whispers, and before Tony knows what's happening, there's a slim, warm body pressing against his own, Peter's face is buried in his neck, and his hands have snaked their way around his torso under the robe to press into the bare skin of his back.

Tony stiffens, a million alarm bells ringing in his head. He needs to extricate himself, back away, maybe with a slight admonishment— _I know what you're doing here, kid_ —but does he? Maybe Peter isn't trying anything, maybe he really just needs this and it's only Tony whose mind is that warped because  _what if Rhodey saw this, what if May Parker saw this_ and because of those goddamn dreams where Peter would do exactly this, those dreams that aren't supposed to mean anything because who hasn't had awkward, wrong sex dreams? They don't mean it's what he wants in real life, and they don't just suddenly come true because they're wrong on so many levels and never supposed to really happen but Peter's breath is heavy on his neck, he can feel lips just barely brushing his skin and then something's grazing along his jaw—is that a nose?—and suddenly Peter's face is right there, lips parted, eyes locked with his as if searching for something, and then they fall to Tony's mouth and he realizes with a start what Peter is gathering up the courage to do, sees him lean in—

"Woah!" Tony regains motor functions just on time and jolts back as if shocked by an electric current.

"Woah, kid." He sounds as though he's run a marathon. He stumbles back another step. The ocean-roar of panic is rising around his ears, making him dizzy.

He fucked up. He fucked up so bad this time.

Peter looks as panicked as Tony feels. "I—I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry Tony—"

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. He bumps into a chair and clutches at it like a lifeline. "No, stop. Stop apologizing, kid, you're gonna make it worse—"

"But I'm—oh God, I'm  _so_  sorry, Tony, please, I just, I didn't—"

"No." Tony shakes his head, tries to breathe, manages a gasp. "Not your fault." He's going to hyperventilate if he doesn't get his lungs under control. His ears are ringing. "I—Jesus, Peter—"

" _Please_ , I'm  _sorry—_ " Peter tries to step towards him. Tony raises a finger in warning.

"No, no, listen to me." Tony forces himself to look at Peter. Suddenly he remembers his robe, and hastily ties it shut. He swallows, staring at Peter's terrified, pleading face. "This is my fault."

Peter shakes his head, but Tony cuts him off. "Yes, it is. I've let, things, happen. That shouldn't have happened. Boundaries. I've always been—not great, with them. And I am—God, Peter, I am  _so_ sorry if I made you think—"

"No," Peter whines. It sounds like a wounded animal. He shakes his head again and staggers forwards. Tony falls back. "Please, Tony, it's—it's  _okay_ —"

"None of this is okay! It is so far from okay." Tony's heart is pounding in his throat. "The way I've been with you—it's not okay, Peter. You just tried to  _kiss_ me—you're  _sixteen_  for Christ sakes—"

Peter's expression hardens. "And I'm an Avenger! I'm not a kid! Is that what this is about? Would it be different if I were older?" His voice does suddenly sound deeper, more mature, than Tony has ever heard it before.

His hand presses against his forehead, struggling to hold himself together. "Irrelevant! You're  _not_  older, Peter—"

"No, but I've fought with aliens and gods and been to outer space! I  _died_ , Tony. That has to count for something. I'm probably the only freakin' sixteen-year-old in the whole universe who knows what it feels like to  _die_ —"

Tony's hand jumps to his left arm, clutching hard enough to hurt, to ground himself. He's shaking.

"I told you, I can't talk about that," he grits out. He doesn't need to think about Peter dying, not now, not on top of the weight of his failure that's led them to this—he can't think about how it felt to hold Peter in his arms, solid one moment and then—

"But it  _happened!_ " Peter's voice cracks, and suddenly he sounds so young again and God, Tony can't watch the kid cry, not now—"I died  _in your arms_  and I remember all of it—"

"Goddamit, Peter!" Tony has to turn away.

"—and maybe you can just decide not to think about it, but I can't! Okay? I can't block it out like you!"

Tony feels cold. Everything goes suddenly, jarringly still. He looks back at Peter.

"Block it out?" he says, quietly. "You think that's what I'm doing?"

He sees the confusion, the hurt, flash over Peter's face, and he hates himself.

"Peter. It's all I see when I look at you."

The admission hangs in the air between them. Peter looks surprised, pained, and both far too young and far too old at once.

"And all I want…" Tony's voice falters. He can't say it. The wound is too open and raw; he can't dig his fingers in and stretch it open any further.

Peter is watching him, waiting, eyes wild and desperate. Not for the first time, Tony's breath is taken away by how unguarded and honest Peter is, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve. It's a sort of bravery that has nothing to do with putting on a multi-million dollar suit and diving into the thick of battle.

Peter steps forward, tentatively. "What do you want, Tony?" he asks softly.

Tony closes his eyes. Those words again. He doesn't have an answer. Not one he can speak aloud.

_To keep you here. To hold onto you so tight you'll never disappear again._

He draws a rattling breath, and opens his eyes.

"I want you to go home, Peter."

The look of dismay that flashes over Peter's face almost makes him take back the words immediately.

"N-no, no, please, don't make me go, I—I take it back, please Mr. Stark, I let it get out of hand—" God, that's a cruel irony, Tony thinks—"but I was just, confused, I mean, I won't try anything again I  _promise_  just please don't make me leave—"

"Kid, kid—" Tony tries to butt in, to calm him, but it's no use.

"—I can't go back, Mr. Stark, please, not right now—I can't be there. I can't be there right now, with May looking at me in that way like she just wants me to be okay but I'm  _not_ , I'm not okay and I can't help it, I'm sorry, it's just, you're the only one—you understand, Mr. Stark, no one else gets it but you, and I—I  _need_  you." Peter has been inching closer; he's right in front of Tony now. "And I think, I just—want to be close to you? I mean, we can be close, right? Without—being like  _that?_ "

Finally, Peter stops to draw in a ragged breath. The way he's looking at Tony reminds him forcibly of when the kid pleaded with him not to take his suit on Governor's Island. Tony made the wrong decision back then—sure, he told the kid it was the right one, but he's never stopped beating himself up for leaving the kid practically defenseless, for almost getting him  _killed_ —

"Right, Tony?"

His voice is so small, his expression so agonized; Tony can't stand it. He can't make the kid leave like this.

And, after all, it is his fault. Not Peter's. Peter doesn't deserve this.

Tony swallows. Nods once.

"Right, kid."

He doesn't even know what he's agreed to, but it seems like the right choice when Peter instantly sags with relief. He sways on his feet, looking exhausted.

Tony refuses to think too hard about it. He steps forward and allows Peter to collapse against his chest, brings his hands up to soothe down Peter's back.

He doesn't let the embrace last long, though. He's not going to make the same mistake twice.

He pushes Peter away gently by the shoulders.

"I'm, um, going to go shower," he says awkwardly. He can't meet Peter's eyes. He figures the least he can do is give Peter some space, and give himself the chance to look a little more presentable.

He drops his hands from Peter's shoulders and clears his throat. "You hungry? I'm starving." He's not. "How about Chinese? There's a menu, second drawer on the left from the sink. Tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. your order. Just—get anything you want. I'm not picky."

Without waiting for an answer, he turns away towards the hallway and doesn't look back.

Tony stays in the shower longer than strictly necessary, letting the just-this-side-of-comfortably hot water pound down on his shoulders. He keeps turning the encounter over in his mind, looking for what he could have done differently.

 _But the problem goes back further than that_ , a voice in his mind whispers. It goes back to how he acted with Peter at the party, how he's acted with Peter the past few months—inviting him to his home every week, letting him use an Iron Man suit—

_It's hero worship, Tony. That's dangerous._

God. No wonder the kid tried to kiss him. How did he not see it sooner?

No, he did see it. He just chose to ignore it, until it was too late. It felt good to be around Peter, to see his bright and eager eyes, his admiration and—something deeper than admiration. Devotion. Need.  _I need you._ He wanted so badly to be needed, and screw the consequences. But now he has to live with them, like with every other goddamn mistake he's made in his life.

When Tony's fingers and toes have long since pruned, he can't justify staying in the shower any longer. He dresses in comfortable sweats—long pants and a tee, nothing unintentionally revealing—and returns to the living room.

He catches sight of Peter on a bar stool at the island and breezes past without looking at him.

"You order?"

It takes Peter a moment to respond. When he does, he sounds normal enough.

"Yeah."

At least, normal as far as Tony can tell from a monosyllabic answer. He knows the kid is just trying to put on a good face. It makes Tony's stomach clench. He wishes he knew how to make it easier for him. Is he being nice enough? Too nice?

"Great. F.R.I.D.A.Y., status?"

"Your order will arrive in approximately five minutes."

Tony nods. Well, he did spend forever in the shower.

He takes his time pouring a couple glasses of water. When that's done, he can't put it off any longer. He slides one across the counter, and looks up at Peter.

Peter is leaning on his elbows with his chin in his hands, gazing down at the counter top. He doesn't look like he's been crying, so. That's a plus.

Tony clears his throat. Peter's eyes flick up to his, then back down.

"Movie?" he suggest, at a loss for how to fill the space.

Peter nods. "Okay."

Good. Up to two syllables. That's progress.

The food arrives. They spread it out on the coffee table and settle on the couch. Tony thinks there's a quip in there about not getting duck sauce on the Ceccotti, but he doesn't even attempt it. He tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to put the room in movie mode, and the lights dim. A slick, 146-inch screen slides down over the window opposite. Tony doesn't glance at Peter to see if he's impressed.

He lets Peter pick the movie. He settles on an old Star Trek film—the one with the whales. Tony remembers seeing it in theaters when he was Peter's age; he wonders how "really old" the movie must be in the kid's mind.

Tony puts on a good show of eating a decent plateful. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Peter picking at the Lo Mein with his chopsticks. He doesn't push him to finish his dinner.

The movie ends. Tony checks the time. He glances at Peter, who is methodically closing the containers of uneaten food.

"When does your aunt expect you back?"

Peter pauses. Tony doesn't miss the rigidness in his shoulders.

"Um. Not till tomorrow. Told her I was spending the night at Ned's."

Tony sighs. He doesn't dwell on why Peter might have said that. He drags a hand down his face.

"Okay. You can stay here."

"Thanks," is Peter's quiet reply.

They put the leftovers in the fridge—all of them, since Tony knows how much Peter hates food waste—and then Tony leads Peter down the hall.

He indicates a bathroom on the left. "Help yourself to anything in here. Toothbrush, whatever."

Tony leaves him to it and makes his way to his room. After he's gotten ready in the adjoining bathroom he sits heavily on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands.

He has no clue what he's supposed to do.  _We can be close, right?_  What did it mean to be close, though? He thought he and the kid were close, all things considered. That was the problem. He's not sure what Peter wants, or, more importantly, what he needs.

Peter appears in the doorway, looking hesitant.

"You good, kid? Find everything you need? Those okay for sleep clothes?" That sounds helpful, Tony thinks. Responsible. Very adult things to say to a young person. Neutral.

Peter nods. "Uh, so, where should I…?"

"Right." Tony points. "Bedroom across the hall. Should be comfortable in there."

Peter nods again. He lingers a moment, then turns away, before remembering to add a quick "Thanks, Tony."

Tony watches him go. The door shuts behind him. Tony lies back heavily on the bed, not bothering to pull the covers over himself. He stares at the ceiling.

"Lights, F.R.I.D.A.Y."

He's left in darkness.

The dark isn't good for Tony's mind. It doesn't provide any distractions; it's perfectly indifferent to his thoughts, and allows them to spiral, round and round. There's nothing holding them back now.

Peter's fingers tracing his scar.

_We can be close, right?_

His lips on his neck, parted and ready an inch from his own.

_I need you._

And when Peter looked into his eyes in that split second—what did he find? What made him lean forward and almost—

_What do you want, Tony?_

_What do you want, Tony?_

_What do you want, To—_

Tony shoots upright. He can't do this. He thinks there's still some bourbon in his dresser—

No. Not while Peter is across the hall. Maybe he can go to the workshop, lose himself in an engine for an hour or five.

So that's what he does. When four in the morning rolls around, he decides to make it an all-nighter. He should brew some coffee and commit to it properly.

The kitchen is dark, illuminated only by a few appliance displays and the faint light of the city filtering in from the adjacent living room windows. It's enough for Tony to make his way to the coffee pot and set about preparing it.

"Why are you making coffee?"

He whirls around; there, sitting at the island, is Peter, just a hunched over silhouette. His voice sounds thick, like maybe he's been crying.

"Oh. Didn't see you there, kid. What are you doing up?" Tony pivots from Peter's question.

For once, Peter doesn't call him out. The silhouette shrugs. "Couldn't sleep." He sniffs.

Okay, definitely crying. Tony's chest clenches.

"Dream?" Tony ventures.

Peter nods. He doesn't elaborate. Tony doesn't need him to, or want him to, for that matter.

He looks out towards the wide windows at the glow of distant streetlights, as if they'll give him the answer he's looking for.

He takes a deep breath and makes up his mind. "Okay, kid. C'mon."

He abandons the coffee machine and motions for Peter to follow him down the hall, all the way to his room. He senses Peter falter in the doorway and glances back.

He gestures towards the bed. "Make yourself comfortable."

When Peter doesn't move, he sighs. "Don't get your panties in a bunch; I'm not getting under the covers with you."

"Oh, right," Peter stammers out, and scurries towards the bed.

Tony goes into the closet and rummages through some drawers till he finds a blanket of the right weight, and brings it back to the bed.

Peter is under the sheets on one side, arms folded stiffly overtop the covers.

Tony snorts. "I said make yourself comfortable, Parker, not do your best impression of Ramses II." He stops. "Unless. You'd rather go back to your room…" he offers, because he really should, he realizes; he shouldn't assume he knows what Peter wants, that Peter would be okay with sharing a bed—though it ought to fit the definition of  _close_ , right? Without being inappropriate. Or, not too inappropriate. As long as there are a few feet and multiple layers of blankets separating them, that's—well, it's got to be some sort of acceptable compromise—

"No, uh, this is fine."

Tony nods. "Okay."

He lies down on top of the comforter and spreads his own blanket over him, settling on his back. He hears Peter shifting around next to him, close enough that he can feel a subtle dip in the mattress, but far enough that they don't touch.

"Good night, Peter."

"Good night."

Tony listens. He focuses on Peter's breathing, uses it to block out all other thought.

It takes a long while for it to even out into the deep, steady breaths of slumber, but it does eventually, and Tony counts that as a small victory.

He matches his breathing with Peter's soft inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, until his eyes droop closed and he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

…

Tony awakes to an empty bed and a text message.

_Had to get back early for breakfast with May, thought I should let you sleep_

_Thanks for everything_

Tony sighs. It's 10:46, and that was the best night's rest he's had in a long while.

 _No problem,_  he shoots back. Nice and simple. Nothing to read into. Or maybe Peter will read into its brevity, maybe he'll worry Tony is upset with him—

No. He's not going to overthink it. He's not going to think about it at all, in fact.

He thinks about anything but Peter as he goes about his day. His fingers itch for a bottle, but he resists as long as possible. He gets through a meeting with Pepper—mercifully over video rather than in person—and a call with Fury. He amends the Inner Sanctum protocol, and checks several others of F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s subsystems, just to be sure. He tinkers with his nanotech late into the night, rereads the specs Shuri sent him. He even remembers to take a break for dinner, at 9:30 in the evening: leftover Chinese.

It's just after two a.m. when he allows himself to think about Peter. Not coincidentally, it's also when he allows himself a drink. Or three. Or four. Enough to dull his mind, blur the memory of Peter's hands on his chest, his back, his breath against his lips, the desperation in his eyes and  _I need you—_

Tony flops down on his bed. The pillow smells like Peter. He buries his face in it and falls heavily, drunkenly asleep.

He dreams again. This time, Peter's hands get farther than ever before.

He wakes up achingly, awkwardly hard, but he doesn't touch himself. He never does, after those dreams. He opts for a long, cold shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are my fuel, my balm for the soul and ego, and will be read and re-read and treasured. Hope you enjoyed this monster of a chapter and that it will tide you over for a while--I have to make school assignments a priority now, but I can't wait to continue this story as time allows.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Increasing rating--don't think it's earned, but just to be safe.

It's been far too long since Tony's gotten laid.

Just over eight months, in fact. Not since Pepper; more specifically, not since two days before the Q-ship appeared over the West Village. Not since before… everything.

It's probably the reason for this, funk, he's been in. A good fuck ought to clear his head.

And that's why Tony finds himself entering his apartment in the wee hours of New Year's Day with a gorgeous brunette hanging off his arm, giggling.

The giggling makes her seem younger than she is. Mid-thirties, if Tony had to guess. Which is younger than him, to be sure, but not too young. Not even controversial. Besides which, she's the CEO of a tech start-up. Tony admires an independent, intelligent woman. And did he mention she's gorgeous?

This is going to be easy for him.

Which is why it's such a surprise when she stops in the middle of swirling her tongue around his mouth while straddling his lap on the couch.

"Okay, what is it?" she sighs.

Tony blinks. "Sorry? I'm—I'm having a very good time. Are you not?"

She—shit, what's her name, Mandy? No, Miranda. Right?—raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"Really? Because you don't seem very… present." She purses her lips.

Tony has been very present, for everything they've been doing, thank you very much. They sat down on the couch together, started making out and touching, and then—oh. And then Tony remembered that he'd sat in this same exact spot with Peter just a few days ago. They'd eaten Chinese together, and watched Star Trek IV, and Tony was just wondering if the kid had enjoyed the movie or if he'd been too preoccupied—

"I mean, we can switch things up if you want," Miranda continues. "If this isn't… working, for you."

"Yes," Tony says quickly. "I was just thinking—we should move this to the bedroom."

Miranda looks pleased with that answer.

Tony did not think this through, though. Now Miranda's hair is splayed out over the pillow Peter slept on, moaning as Tony eats her out. It's distracting; he almost wants to tell her to move for a second so he can switch the pillows. She's going to get her smell—cinnamon, vanilla something—all over it and it will drown out the little bit of Peter that's left, and that's not good because Tony's been using it to help him sleep; he'll close his eyes and concentrate on the warm scent, and imagine Peter is still next to him, sleeping soundly.

Tony decides he doesn't like the way Miranda smells. He's fairly certain it's her shampoo. Too cloying. Makes him feel like he's in a bakery—

"C'mon, I want you so bad…" she breathes beneath him, breasts heaving. Her legs are splayed open and waiting.

"Just give me a sec," he whispers. He's going to be hard enough any second now. He's been stroking himself long enough, God knows. Almost…

Is it weird Peter's been in the bed he's having sex on? The one he used to have sex with Pepper in? That's probably weird. He'll have to change the sheets himself tomorrow; he can't call Sophia in on a holiday. Maybe he should leave that pillowcase, though, if there's any Peter left on it.

Wait, that would be creepy. Is it creepy? Would Peter think that it's creepy? It's irrelevant what the kid thinks. Rhodey would definitely be disturbed—

A frustrated huff draws his attention back to Miranda.

"You—need some help? Want me to go down on you?"

"Um—" He does need help. He should probably say yes. The only problem is, he's very suddenly, acutely aware of how much he does not want Miranda to suck him off. "No, that's okay. I got it."

Almost. He's almost got it.

Maybe he'll stiffen up if he enters her. Time to get this show on the road.

He tries; it doesn't work. Miranda gets on top of him; it still doesn't work.

She sighs, climbs off his hips. He stares at the ceiling. He can tell she's disappointed.

"Um. Sorry," he offers. "We could—"

"I think I should go."

"Oh."

She begins gathering up her clothes. Tony props himself up on an elbow.

"Let me call you a cab."

She smiles; it's pinched. "I'll get an Uber. It's fine."

"Oh. If you're sure."

She's already dressed. Tony makes to get up, but she stops him with a hand.

"It's fine."

What's fine? Tony wonders.

She pauses at the door. "It was… nice to meet you, Tony."

He holds up a hand in farewell and feels very stupid sitting there naked on his bed. "Yes, you too—" Miranda? Is it Miranda? Maybe Melanie—

She's gone.

He falls back on the bed with a sigh. He's not even a little bit hard.

He tugs off the condom and tosses it to the floor, then reaches under the nightstand for a bottle of bourbon and crawls under the covers. Out of curiosity, he sniffs the pillow next to him.

Cinnamon and vanilla. Like a bakery.

He tries not to examine his deep disappointment at that fact as he drinks himself to sleep.

…

_Si fuera rico, me gustaría viajaría—_

Peter blinks bleary eyes at the textbook page before him.

_Si fuera rico, me gustaría viajar por todo el mundo…_

He squeezes his eyes shut. He needs a break, just for a minute. He knows he should go to bed, like Tony told him to, but Peter wants to push back sleep just a little longer.

He has barely had a dreamless night since the one he spent in Tony's bed. Next to the man himself. Who's still working away in the laboratory downstairs after forcing Peter out at midnight.

_Kid, you're dead on your feet. Go get some shut-eye._

At least Tony seems to be treating him normally. As though nothing has changed. It's their first weekend back at the compound together since…

Since Peter's monumentally stupid, horrible idea to try and kiss Tony Stark. Peter hasn't stopped berating himself about it. Even now, he wishes the couch would swallow him whole and put an end to his shame.

But Tony _didn't back away._ Not at first. He's been over it a million times in his head. The man didn't back away from the embrace; he let Peter touch him in new and intimate ways and didn't stop him, and when Peter looked into his eyes he thought, he could have sworn—

Well, it doesn't matter. Apparently he was wrong. Because, obviously. How could he have ever thought the man would want him that way?

But he got a night in Tony Stark's bed out of it, so. That's something.

Peter was so afraid afterwards that he'd ruined everything; he was sure Fury was going to call to say Tony wouldn't be working with him in the lab anymore—but no such call came. In fact, Peter had received a peppering of texts from Tony himself over the next several days. Nothing earth-shattering: just a few questions about his patrols and notes about their ongoing projects. Still, Peter was grateful; Tony was reassuring him that they could act like it never happened. Those texts were the touchstones that got him through the days and nights until the weekend finally came.

Still, a part of him had been terrified to see Tony again—but the man simply greeted him as usual and put him right to work.

Although, Peter could swear he felt Tony's eyes on him for long stretches at a time, while Tony was supposedly wrapped up in his holo-displays. Peter didn't dare look back at him to confirm, but he's rarely been wrong about these things since gaining his heightened senses. He just wishes he knew what the man was thinking…

Peter blinks his eyes open. They've been drooping again. He yawns and tries to focus back on the Spanish assignment.

_Podría haber sido rico…_

_Podría haber..._

_Podría…_

"Peter. Hey, buddy."

Peter blinks. His face is smashed into a cushion and his textbook is on the floor. He turns his head to breathe better and finds Tony's face looking down at him.

"C'mon, kid. Time for bed."

Peter sighs, too tired to argue. Tony supports him behind the shoulders and helps him upright.

It's only when they're standing, Peter leaning some of his weight into Tony's side and Tony's arm still around him, that he becomes really aware of their positions. He tries to suppress the blush creeping up his neck.  _Don't be weird, Peter._

Peter expects Tony to pull away, but he doesn't. He guides Peter out of the common room towards the residential quarters. Peter is so focused on Tony's warmth against his side, the press of his arm around his shoulders, that he doesn't notice at first that they've turned down the hallway away from his room.

Finally, his brain catches up with his feet. His heart breaks into a galloping pace.

They stop in front of the door to Tony's suite. Tony opens it.

"This is your room," Peter breathes, glancing at the man.

"…Yes," he responds, shifting uncomfortably. Peter isn't used to the uncertain look on his face.

Tony schools his features quickly and gestures towards Peter with an open palm. "Of course, if you'd rather go back to yours—"

"No!" Peter says, a little too quickly. He can't stop the blush that flares up his cheeks now, but luckily Tony hasn't turned on the light yet, and the hallway is dim. He clears his throat. "I mean, uh, no, I'd like to—to stay. Thank you."

He can feel Tony's eyes on him again, but doesn't look up. In his periphery he sees the man nod and stand aside to let Peter through.

Tony gives him another set of his old sweats and lets him change in the bathroom. When Peter emerges Tony is already settled on top of the bedcovers, under a blanket of his own like before.

It's weird to see Tony in bed; it's such a private scene. Peter tries not to stare. He takes the cue and slides under the covers on his side of the bed.

It sends a shiver down his spine to realize he's already thinking of it as  _his_ side of the bed.

He hadn't dared to hope that there would be a repeat of that night's sleeping arrangements, but here they are. Beyond being excited and more than a little nervous, Peter is grateful. Grateful that Tony trusts him, and grateful just for the company. It's a comfort, to fall asleep next to Tony, to know that if he dreams again, all he has to do is wake up and find Tony right there, tangible and real. Just to know that he's close.

"Comfy, Pete?"

"Yeah," he says, his face heating when it comes out breathy and high-pitched.

Tony clicks off the bedside lamp.

There's a moment of silence. Peter realizes he's holding his breath and forces himself to exhale.

"Peter."

"Mm-hm?" He doesn't trust his voice.

Tony doesn't speak for a moment, and Peter wishes he could make out his expression. His dark vision is good enough, but Tony's face is angled away from him.

"You… probably shouldn't tell anyone. About this." Tony's voice is tight.

Peter's heart thuds against his ribcage. He considers his answers.

 _Okay_  seems too naïve,  _I know_  too damning.

"I won't," he settles on. He hopes it doesn't sound as shaky as he feels.

After a moment Tony rolls onto his side, away from Peter.

"Good night, Pete."

"Good night, Tony."

It doesn't take many minutes of Peter staring at Tony's broad back before he finally slips into unconsciousness.

…

It becomes their norm. They never talk about it during the day, working in the lab, eating their meals; but the expectation is there. At night Peter will follow Tony back to his room, get under the covers while Tony stays on top, and they'll fall asleep to the sound of each others' breathing.

Commander Hill, Dr. Cho, Colonel Rhodes, and even Director Fury all pass through the facility on occasion, engaging in small talk or catching up on business with Tony. Everyone—except for Fury—makes polite inquiries about how Peter is progressing, or just about how his junior year is going, where he's thinking of applying for school. Obligatory, friendly chatter. That's the extent of their contact with other people at the compound; official briefings are a rare occurrence, as there haven't been any threats on a global scale since last summer. Peter's glad for the respite.

For the most part, Tony and Peter are left to themselves, settling into a comfortable rhythm of their own. It's essentially the same as what they've done nearly every weekend since the summer—lab, kitchen, homework for Peter while Tony hits the gym—but with this one essential difference that casts a new light on all the same old activities. Just the fact that Peter gets to crawl into bed next to Tony every night and wake up to the sight of his face on the pillow changes everything. Their whole routine has somehow become more domestic. Intimate.

He thinks Tony feels that, too, even if he never mentions it. There's something soft in his gaze sometimes, when Peter catches him in a rare, unguarded moment.

Peter often thinks of the fact that he may be the only person in the world besides Pepper Potts who has ever had this, this level of comfort and routine, with Tony Stark. Peter's read the tell-alls, of course. He knows Tony was never the type to stick around for morning-afters. But Peter gets them time after time. Maybe it's messed up for him to compare himself to Tony's past sexual partners, but he can't help it. It's hard not to let it go to his head just a bit.

It doesn't help the problem of his feelings for Tony, either. Thank God the man hasn't tried to bring that up. Peter would die of mortification. He told Tony that day that he was just confused, but that wasn't true. Peter knows what he wants as well as ever, but if Tony wants to believe he simply had his emotions mixed up, so much the better. If it means getting to stay in Tony's bed, Peter will take it.

Being so near to Tony—drifting to sleep in his smell and soaking up what he can of his body heat from a couple feet away and through the layers of blankets—has only made Peter more acutely aware of his desire. He wakes up with morning wood most days, as usual, but now the erections are accompanied by lingering, vague memories of pleasant dreams involving Tony—stubble and rough hands, strong arms. It makes the boners much more difficult to ignore. But hopefully Tony writes them off as an inevitable male inconvenience, a mere bodily response.

Peter knows better, of course. He can't deny it when half the time he ends up back on his own bed fisting the sheets, desperately palming himself through his sleep pants with Tony's scent still in his nose, or rubbing one out in the shower to the thought of Tony's thick fingers wrapped around him. He feels guilty afterwards—just not guilty enough to stop. What he's doing isn't hurting Tony, after all. As long as he doesn't make Tony uncomfortable again, it will be fine.

All things considered, Peter feels better than he has in ages. At least on the weekends, he's getting a full night's sleep. Even Tony seems better rested than usual; he goes to bed when Peter does, or shortly after. On those occasions he sends Peter off with a silent nod that lets him know it's alright for him to go ahead to Tony's room: a simple look that says "I'll see you up there." It sends a shiver down his spine every time, to see Tony look at him like that, and know what it means. Their own private language.

Peter's also noticed, though he doesn't mention it, that he hasn't seen as many signs of Tony's drinking, at the compound or when he stops by Tony's apartment. The thought quiets the nervous flutterings in his chest he sometimes gets when he thinks too hard about what they're doing.

He knows it's not normal. He knows the other Avengers wouldn't like it; he knows Aunt May would  _hate_  it, and he thinks that sometimes Tony doubts their arrangement too, if the man's occasional uneasy glances and valiant attempts to mask the tension before they settle in for the night are anything to go by. But if Tony is drinking less and sleeping better, it can't be that bad, Peter thinks. It's worth it.

…

"Hey, so, Pete."

Peter looks up from where he's cleaning the remnants of dal from his plate with a piece of naan. He knows that tone of voice. It's the one that means Tony is trying to casually broach a subject he's been waiting to bring up.

They've spent the afternoon since Peter got out of school in Tony's workshop. Peter thought the man seemed a little quieter than usual. He regards him carefully.

Tony wipes his hands with a napkin, crumples it and tosses it onto his empty plate, then pushes his stool out slightly from the counter so he can turn towards Peter.

"I was thinking. We pretty much finished the cloaking upgrades today, which is what I planned to do this weekend—so, why don't you take some time off."

Peter's brow furrows. "What?"

Tony's looking down at the counter as though inspecting the grain of the marble. He shrugs. "Take a weekend off. You've earned it."

"I don't want a weekend off."

"You sure about that? Wouldn't Aunt May like it? Be a nice surprise for her."

"May always takes extra shifts on the weekends because I'm not there."

"Okay, you must have homework though, right, wunderkind? How many A.P.s are you taking again?"

"I don't have any big assignments due soon."

"Well, Avengers business isn't exactly booming, Pete. I'm running out of things for you to do." Finally, Tony looks him square in the eye. His expression is indecipherable.

Peter presses his lips together as he looks at Tony. The man meets his gaze, unflinching.

He should have known something like this was coming. He should have known Tony wouldn't put up with him crawling into his bed forever. He's just a clingy kid in Tony's eyes.

"You don't want me there." Peter's voice comes out quieter than he intended.

Tony's gaze softens. "I didn't say that," he responds quickly.

"Then—" Peter swallows. "Then why are you trying to convince me not to come?" He struggles to keep his voice steady.

Tony looks at him for a moment, sharp eyes taking in everything. Peter feels exposed.

Then Tony sighs. He rubs a hand over his face. "You're too damn smart for your own good, you know that?" he mutters.

Peter reddens at the compliment, despite the circumstances.

"It wasn't my idea, kid," Tony continues. Peter feels his chest relax just a bit at the admission.

"Then why—"

"Maria Hill. She's been talking to your aunt."

The pieces click together. Peter frowns.

"May's told her she's worried," Tony sighs. "You haven't been sleeping. Staying out late."

"That's nothing new," Peter huffs in frustration.

"I know, kid."

Peter backs down at that, because he knows Tony knows. Tony is the only one who really knows.

"She seems to think…" Tony reaches for the right words, "that you're focusing too much on the superhero stuff. Too much Spider, not enough Man." His eyes search the ceiling. "Okay, that was—let me try again: too much Spider-Man, not enough Peter Parker. Can you just be Peter Parker for one weekend, kid?"

Peter hugs himself across his midsection. "I'm Peter Parker every weekend." He looks at Tony meaningfully.

The man seems caught off-guard for a moment before collecting himself. "Right. I know. Maybe your aunt would like to see a little of Peter Parker too, though. A bit selfish of me to… hog all the Peter Parker weekends—yeah that's not really. You know what I mean." He clears his throat.

Peter looks down at his plate. "Well, if sleep is what she's worried about… the only good sleep I get is on the weekends."

Tony is silent, so Peter braces himself to continue. "I don't. Sleep well, at home. Sleep better when I'm—with you," he breathes.

It's the first time either of them have mentioned it. Peter just hopes it's enough.

Tony stares at him. Peter thinks he sees that old look in his eyes, and something dark, the way Tony looked at him when Peter first said he could touch him—but then Tony's expression shutters. It's perfectly blank.

He nods once. "Okay then. I'll tell Maria it's a no-go."

Peter collapses inwardly in relief. He can't thank Tony enough, so he doesn't try.

Tony clears his throat. "It's getting late. You should go home, see your aunt."

Peter doesn't want to leave. He wants to stay here, with Tony. He doesn't want to wait for the weekend to sleep next to him again.

He wets his lips. "She—she's not at home. She has the night shift." He can't keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

Tony looks at him, the same way as before. Peter revels in it, lets it draw him in even as part of him wants to hide from the piercing gaze.

Tony raises a hand. He only hesitates a moment before threading his fingers into Peter's hair and stroking it back.

It's the first time Tony's touched him like this since the party. Peter's eyes flutter closed.

When he opens them, Tony's expression has shifted again. He looks slightly dumbstruck, lips parted, drinking Peter in with his eyes. Peter blushes.

Tony pulls his hand away, just quickly enough to make Peter frown. Tony's lips purse together.

"Well then," he rasps. "She'll be happy to see you when she gets home in the morning."

Peter thinks he can hear a note of resignation in Tony's voice. Maybe, just maybe, Tony wishes Peter could stay, too.

…

"We are responsible for Peter's wellbeing."

Tony struggles not to roll his eyes as he fiddles with the snake cube puzzle he grabbed off Maria's desk when he walked in.

"Why do people keep feeling the need to remind me of that? Am I not—ask me honestly here." He abandons the cube in his lap and looks Maria in the eye. "Do I have any higher priority than Peter's wellbeing?"

Maria purses her lips as she regards him. Tony meets her gaze.

He thinks of anything but the sensation of carding his fingers through Peter's hair. Anything but the sight of his peaceful face on the pillow in the morning. Anything but  _what do you want, Tony; I need you—_

"I know you don't, Tony. But I think you're too close to this."

 _I just want to be close to you._  Tony keeps his face carefully blank. He returns to the snake cube.

"You try asking the kid to take a weekend off," he grumbles. "He'll look at you like you just killed a puppy."

He glances at Maria and sees the corner of her mouth twitch upward. He allows himself "one point for Tony" in his mental tally.

"I don't doubt it," she says wryly. "He's a good kid. Hard worker."

"Don't I know it."

"And I know you care a lot about him."

The sudden empathy in her voice makes Tony pause. He forces his fingers to continue twisting the cube into shape so she won't catch the tremble in his hands. He nods shortly, keeping his focus on the puzzle.

He prefers when Maria is all business. Even if she is a taskmaster. She's good at her job. The last thing Tony needs is sympathy for his… situation, with Peter. Of course, he wouldn't want to hear that he needs to back off from the kid, either. Really, if everyone could just stop talking about him and Peter it would be great. If the world just forgot they existed, that would be fine by him.

"And I know you're doing your best with him."

 _Shit._  Tony's fingers press harder against the wooden cubes.

"But this isn't just about you, Tony. We've got a legal guardian to appease, or the whole arrangement goes out the window. I don't think anybody wants that."

Tony nods again. It's all he can do.

Maria sighs and leans back in her chair. "So. I've got one more idea. But you're not going to like it, Tony."

He braces himself. Continues folding the snake into cube form. Just a few steps from completion.

"One of May Parker's concerns is…" Maria begins, and immediately Tony doesn't like her tactful tone. Maria is direct, straightforward. Tony appreciates that. When she's being cautious, it means something is off. "…the, ah, unvaried nature of Peter's routine here," she finishes.

Tony blinks. "Unvaried?"

"…That he spends the whole weekend in the laboratory."

"With me, you mean," Tony says without missing a beat. He doesn't look up for confirmation.

Maria is silent for a moment. When she speaks again her voice is quieter, but mercifully professional. "I think it would be a good idea for Peter to get exposure to other members of the team."

Tony stares at the nearly perfect cube in his hands. There's a gap in one side that he'll have to unravel the whole thing to fix. How the hell did he miss that.

"May Parker doesn't like how much time her nephew has been spending with me," he says aloud, matter-of-fact, because apparently he's feeling particularly masochistic today.

"Tony—"

"No, that's—fine." What's not fine is the tone of voice Maria said his name in. Better put a stop to that right away. No pity-parties today.

Tony looks up at her guilelessly, abandoning the cube as a lost cause. "I'm sure Rhodey has a thing or two to teach young Parker."

Maria purses her lips again. "Not who I had in mind."

Tony quirks a brow at her.

…

"Keep your hands up! Your left side's exposed!"

Tony sets his barbell back on the rack and glances across the gym where the two figures are circling each other in the ring. He wipes the sweat from his brow as he watches Peter narrowly dodge a mean right hook.

From Sam fucking Wilson.

Sam keeps up the offensive with some tricky footwork, backing Peter into a corner.

"C'mon Parker, what I tell you? Lock it up!"

Tony begins stripping the weights off his bar.

He hears a  _thwump_  and looks over again. Sam is on the ground, Peter over him with a knee against his back. Tony allows himself a small nod of approval.

"Okay, I'm calling it," Sam wheezes.

"Hey, sorry man," Peter pants as he lets Sam up. "Did I go too hard?"

"What do I look like to you? I ain't a old man like Stark there."

Tony frowns and drops the weights on the rack a bit harder than he meant to.

"Don't you worry about me," Sam laughs. "Takes a bit more than one hard hit to put me down for the count."

"Um, I think you were the definition of down for the count. Hate to break it to you," Peter deadpans, eyes wide as he looks at Sam.

Tony's frown deepens. It's a little early to be breaking out Sassy Peter, he thinks. It's not as if he and Sam are old friends.

"Watch yourself, Parker. Overconfidence is what got you last time, if I recall correctly. And if Redwing were here—"

"Oh yes, if Redwing were here I would certainly be regretting it right now," says Peter in mock seriousness.

"Hey, what I tell you about Redwing? You wanna be on his good side, man. He's sensitive, so watch it."

They chuckle. Peter looks like a fucking teenager.

Which he is.

Something dark and unsettling rolls through Tony's gut. He doesn't like how quickly Sam and Peter have taken to each other.

Maria said Tony wouldn't like her idea, and she wasn't wrong. He's not Sam Wilson's biggest fan. Even though Tony made up with Steve in the end, Sam holds a grudge, and he's made sure Tony knows it. They've never gotten to hash out old grievances. No Avengers family therapy for them.

So naturally, because of that, Tony is uneasy about the fact that Sam and Peter have hit it off.

Or maybe. Maybe it has to do with the fact that watching them, he's reminded how other people treat Peter. Other adults. How they interact with him the way one should interact with a teenager. Little jibes, a bit of teasing, but never going too far, and in the end imparting some wisdom, some advice. Guidance. Encouragement.

"Hey, but Peter, seriously—you only got me down through brute force," Sam continues. "You're hella strong, kid. But someday you're gonna be fighting someone just as strong, and that's where you're gonna have to rely on skill to gain the upper hand. Got that?"

Peter nods. "Yeah, got it."

"Alright, good. We'll keep working on it. Nice progress today, though. We'll pick back up with the grabs next time."

Tony's eye twitches. It reminds him of how he was with Peter when they first met. Sort of—he tried his best, at least. But when did things between them get so… complicated?

Peter jogs off towards the locker room, leaving Sam and Tony alone. Tony returns his barbell to its stand.

"Hey, Stark. Wanna go a round?"

"No thanks," says Tony brusquely. "Gonna get cleaned up myself."

Sam shrugs. Tony barely spares him a glance as he follows after Peter.

The locker room is quiet; Tony wonders if Peter's already headed up to his own quarters. He pulls off his shirt and uses it to wipe down his face and neck, then grabs a few items from his duffel and makes for the showers, tossing the shirt in a laundry hamper along the way. He rounds the corner—and finds a pair of wide, brown eyes staring back at him.

Peter is standing at the far end of the row of sinks, still in his workout clothes. He lets out a soft "Oh," and for a moment Tony is confused as to why Peter should be surprised—there's no way the kid didn't hear Tony coming, even if Tony didn't hear him—until he realizes Peter probably didn't expect him to be shirtless.

Sure enough, Peter's eyes flit down over Tony's exposed chest and abs, shining with sweat, before darting back to his face. And then—Jesus Christ—the kid's tongue flicks over his lips. Is he even aware of what he's doing? Tony wonders.

Tony knows the kid hasn't gotten over his crush, obviously. He's caught the way Peter looks at him when he thinks he's being inconspicuous. Standing in front of Peter without a shirt probably isn't helping anything—but then, a voice in his head provides, neither is sharing a bed, in all likelihood. He wonders why that doesn't bother him more than it does.

There's a moment heavy with tension as they simply look at each other. Tony recognizes this tension; he knows exactly what kind it is, but he refuses to name it, even in his mind.

He clears his throat. "Hey kid. You lost or something?" he prods, because Peter doesn't seem intent on taking a shower.

"Uh—" Peter's eyes trail over Tony's chest again, this time lingering on the arc reactor scar.

Tony crosses his arms self-consciously, but that only draws Peter's attention to his biceps. Tony wishes he still had the shirt. He clears his throat pointedly.

Peter snaps out of it with a furious blush. "I was just—I've never been in a locker room this nice?" he blurts out.

Tony raises an eyebrow and lets his eyes wander over the spotless tile floors, the multicolor mosaicked walls, the airy ceilings and capacious individual shower stalls. He shrugs. "It's pretty nice," he agrees.

"I think our definitions of 'pretty nice' are a bit different, Tony. This is amazing. There are  _seven different settings_ on the shower nozzles in there."

Tony can't help but grin at Peter's earnest expression. He knows he should drop it, just let the kid leave, but instead he finds himself opening his mouth. "So what were you doing back here? Planning on testing those seven settings, or just staring at them?"

Peter blinks at him like an animal in headlights. "I, uh… I was just looking," he admits sheepishly. "I've never been in here."

Tony nods and walks forward. "Forgot you've never used the gym." He snorts. "Some of us can't actually maintain a perfect physique without ever touching a barbell."

Peter's eyes widen at that, and Tony mentally slaps himself for his wording. He quickly adds, "'Bout time you got on our level, Parker." He throws him a teasing smirk and stops a few sinks away.

Peter fiddles with the hem of his shirt. "Yeah, well. Sam's right, y'know? I gotta work on my skillsets."

Now is really the time to step aside and let Peter go. But the kid is still just staring at him expectantly. Tony can't help himself.

"So you like Sam?" he asks with feigned casualness, leaning against the edge of a sink.

"Yeah, he seems nice." Peter's voice is effortlessly honest. "Fun, y'know?"

 _Fun._  Fun, but supportive. Firm when necessary. As a good adult role model should be.

Tony nods. "Good. Good." He looks away.

"You… don't like him?" Peter sounds disappointed. Tony doesn't like that.

He looks back at the kid. "I don't know him that well, honestly. We weren't really on the team at the same time. He was… close to Rogers." And then he forces himself to add, "It's good you're getting to know him."

Peter nods. Apparently he knows he's hit a nerve, because he quickly changes the subject. "So, why is there a Jacuzzi in here?" he asks, pointing to the giant tub behind a partitioning wall. "Did you guys ever actually—like, use it?"

"No, we didn't, like, use it," Tony can't resist teasing good-naturedly. Peter's embarrassed head-duck is worth it. "Well, not most of us," he amends. "That was put in here for Thor."

Peter's expression quickly morphs into one of awe. "That's… Thor's bathtub?"

"Don't get too excited—I think he used it a grand total of, twice? He wasn't around much. Can you believe it? Guy stuck up his nose at our Midgardian showers, so we put a fucking custom-built bathtub in here, modeled on Asgardian—whatever they deign to bathe their godly asses in. And he still couldn't be bothered to stick around."

When Tony glances back at Peter, Peter isn't smiling in amusement like he expected. Instead, Peter is wearing a thoughtful, somber expression. Tony waits.

"What do you think happened to him?" Peter asks quietly.

The air drops ten degrees. Tony stares back at the tub.

"Do you think he could still be alive?" Peter presses timidly.

Tony takes a deep breath in. "Used to. I figured, he was the only one who even stood a chance. Being a god and all that. Gotta be hard to kill. But, uh…" He clears his throat. "No, kid. I don't think he's alive."

"Why not?"

"If he were…" Tony shrugs.

"…why haven't you heard from him," Peter finishes, putting it together.

Tony sniffs. "Of course. Could be wrong. Like I said: god. Probably got better things to do than drop in on Earth and get roped into some Avengers PR deal."

"But… you were his friend," says Peter softly.

Tony tightens his arms over his chest. "Yeah, well." He swallows. Stares at the tub. "Friendships in the superhero business… aren't the most durable things."

Suddenly, Peter is right next to him, looking unsure, but so…  _kind_. Because that's Peter. A kind, good person.

"We're friends, right, Tony?" he asks.

 _Friends_. Is that what they are? It makes Tony feel slightly ill that Peter even has to ask, and worse: he's not sure of the answer.

He quirks his lips. "'Course, kid. What show've you been watching?"

Peter gives a small, relieved smile. It makes Tony's chest tighten.

"I'm glad we're friends."

Peter looks at him for a moment. Tony sees the hesitation on his face, and knows to brace himself just a half second before Peter is leaning in and hugging him.

Tony doesn't uncross his arms from his chest. He just lets Peter hug him; it's all he has time to do, in fact, before Peter is pulling away again, pink-cheeked.

"Um, I'm gonna go to my room to get cleaned up," Peter mumbles. "See you in the lab."

He disappears around the corner before Tony's mind can catch up. He's still caught on how Peter's slim arms belie the strength of his embrace.

He sighs deeply, sagging against the edge of the sink. He should have said something. When the kid let go, or before he hugged him—something to stop him. Should have stopped him from coming close at all, should have stayed on the other side of the room, should have turned around and walked out as soon as he laid eyes on Peter. Should have.

But then. He wasn't actively encouraging Peter. Was he? He hasn't really done anything wrong.

_Peter's face on the pillow in the morning. Watching the kid try to hide his morning wood as he leaves the room._

Unusual, sure. But not wrong.

_I just want to be close to you._

It's not  _wrong_.

Tony turns the shower on as hot as he can stand—highest water pressure setting of the seven—and stays under the punishing stream for fifteen minutes.

When he's finally dried and dressed, his head feels a little clearer. He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder. He's going to head to the lab, take a fresh look at those Hellicarrier redesigns—

"Hey, Stark."

_Shit._

Sam has just come in from his workout. He has Tony cornered.

"What's up?" Tony asks neutrally.

"Was hoping to talk to you."

Tony can't get a read on Sam's tone. He spreads his hands in invitation.

Sam takes a swig from his water bottle and sets it down on the bench.

"About the kid."

Tony's heart drops into his stomach.

"What about him?"

"You spend a lot of time with him."

Tony tenses. If one more fucking person—

"How's he holding up?"

Tony pauses. "He's fine."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Tony clenches his jaw. "All things considered, yeah, I'd say he's doing okay."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "Maria's worried about him. Or I guess, his aunt's worried about him."

"She's his aunt; isn't it her job to worry?"

"Are you worried about him, Stark?"

Tony feels as though a fist has reached down his throat and taken a hold of his innards.

"I. Peter's a resilient kid."

Sam nods. "Sure. I was hoping you could enlighten me a bit in regards to his mental state, though."

Tony's eyebrow twitches. "No disrespect, but, you barely know Peter. Why the sudden interest in his mental state?"

The look Sam gives him is almost pitying. "Maria didn't ask me here to teach the kid jiu-jitsu."

The fist twists in his gut. Tony feels sick.

Sam sighs. "She's hoping I can get him to talk."

Tony can think of a lot of ways to respond to that. Most of them along the lines of:  _why the fuck would the kid want to talk to you?_  He forces those thoughts to the back of his head. He's not especially proud of them.

"Well." He clears his throat. "Best of luck to you. Kid likes to keep the old emotions close to the chest, I can tell you that much." He readjusts the strap on his shoulder and starts to turn towards the door.

"Sort of like the guy he looks up to."

Tony stops.

"I can talk to more people than just Peter," Sam continues. His voice is lower, conciliatory.

Tony raises an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Uh. Sorry to break the sharey-feely moment, but, I'm good."

Sam purses his lips. "Maybe don't shit on the 'sharey-feely' moments until you've actually had a few, Stark. I've got a degree in trauma counseling, you know."

"Yes, it's very impressive. What a well-educated duo of crime-fighters we make."

Sam looks at him a second, then shakes his head and looks away. "Whatever, man," he mutters. He runs a hand over his head. "Look, we should at least be able to talk about Peter."

"You want to talk to Peter; I think that's great. You have my blessing." Tony starts to leave again.

Behind him, Sam snorts in frustration. "That's just it, man. I don't need your blessing."

Tony has to grind his teeth to keep the scowl off his face as he turns back to him.

"Look," Sam goes on, "I get that you and the kid have been through some shit together."

Tony grips the strap of his bag so tight he wouldn't be surprised if he ends up with a friction burn on his palm.

"But you don't have any sort of special claim on him. You get that, right?" Sam fixes him with a hard stare.

The fist in Tony's stomach is replaced with ice. His mouth goes dry. He meets Sam's gaze.

"Right. Of course."

…

Tony doesn't come to bed that night.

Peter waits. He's rarely able to sleep before Tony joins him, anyway. Close to three a.m. he finally gets up. Sam's left the compound already, so Peter's not worried about running into anyone. He intends to head to the lab, where he's sure Tony is still engrossed in the new Hellicarrier repulsor designs. If he's going to not sleep in Tony's bed, he might as well not sleep by the man's side. Or maybe he could nap on the sofa in the lab, as long as Tony is there.

Peter doesn't make it past the common room, though. He finds Tony sitting on the couch, doing… nothing, as far as Peter can tell.

The man clearly didn't hear him come in. Peter can only see the back of his head from his angle, but Tony seems to be staring at the blank T.V. on the opposite wall.

Quietly, he approaches the side of the couch.

"Tony?" he asks hesitantly.

Tony blinks and looks up at him blearily. He's still in his day clothes, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and dark jeans. His eyes are glazed, his mouth slack.

He's drunk.

The realization sinks in Peter's stomach like a stone.

It seems to take Tony a moment to process what he's seeing. When his eyes focus on Peter, he sighs, closes his eyes.

"Hey, kid."

Peter notices the empty bottles beneath the table and is seized with guilt. He wonders if something he did brought this on. Was it the hug in the locker room? That had been a stupid idea.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Are you… coming to bed?"

Tony shakes his head. Breathes deeply. He's really,  _really_  drunk.

"Um. Okay." It only takes Peter a moment to make up his mind.

He seats himself on the couch right next to Tony.

Tony seems startled when he opens his eyes; apparently he didn't hear Peter approach.

"What're you doing." His head is tilted towards him, nearly resting on his shoulder, as though he can't hold it up straight.

Peter swallows. "Keeping you company. You shouldn't be alone."

Tony's eyes slip closed again. "Peter." His breathing is slow and labored. For a moment, Peter thinks maybe he's fallen asleep; then he speaks.

"Gotta tell you something."

Peter tries to control his lungs; his breaths are getting shallower of their own accord. Tony's face is so close. But that doesn't matter, Peter tells himself. It doesn't. The man is drunker than he's ever seen him.

"Yes, Tony?" He's proud of how steady he keeps his voice.

Tony blinks his eyes open. They look towards Peter, but not at him; they won't focus.

"Gotta. You're so." Tony frowns, jerks a hand up to run haphazardly through his hair.

Peter waits, but nothing more is forthcoming.

"What?" he breathes.

Tony seems to come back to himself at the sound of Peter's voice, as though he were elsewhere for a moment. "What?"

Peter frowns, wets his lips. "You said you had to tell me something?"

"Yeah." Tony closes his eyes again, but this time it looks like he's trying to concentrate. "You're. You can't fuck up. Can't let you."

Peter's frown turns into one of confusion.

"God, I'm so drunk," Tony mumbles, burying his face in his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, kid. Shouldn't be this drunk. Or maybe. More drunk." Tony laughs weakly, as though he's made a joke.

Peter doesn't get it. His lips twist in frustration. "Tony, what were you saying? What do you have to tell me?" He's beginning to suspect it might be a futile effort to get a coherent thought out of the man, but he has to try. It feels vital.

Tony lifts his head to squint at Peter. "Are you... Am I. I always make things worse." He swallows. "You are… the opposite. Of me."

The stone in Peter's stomach grows heavier. "No, I'm not. And you don't," he says softly.

Tony doesn't seem to hear. His eyelids are fluttering closed. He looks like all his concentration is on remembering to breathe.

"Um. Tony. Are you… going to be sick?"

Tony shakes his head.

Peter sighs and reaches for his arm. "I think we should get you—"

"No!" Tony utters with surprising vehemence, pulling his arm away to place a heavy hand on Peter's chest. "Peter. This is important. You… are important. Can't fuck up. I can't."

Peter stares at Tony. Feels the warm weight of the hand on his heaving chest. There's nothing self-conscious about the touch; Tony's too drunk. Just steady pressure and heat.

"Okay…" he lets out shakily. He takes a deep breath. "Tony, I really think we should get you to bed."

Tony groans and drops his hand. He sinks into the cushions, head lolling onto the back of the couch.

"Can't. Can't go to bed. I can't sleep with you."

Peter's stomach clenches. He can feel his ears redden.

Tony blinks at the ceiling. "That's not what I meant. I mean. Not that either. Obviously. That would be…" He drags a hand down his face.

Peter's hands are balled into fists on his knees, so tight that his knuckles show white. He's forgotten how to breathe.

"Fuck, I'm so drunk," Tony mutters again. "I should stop talking. I'm sorry, Pete. Just, fuck. Stop me. Please. Please, Pete. I shouldn't. You shouldn't even see me. Like this. I'm—"

"I-it's okay, Tony!" Peter finally finds his voice. His eyes are stinging and his nose feels tingly. He blinks quickly, swallows the lump in his throat.

He can do this. Tony needs him.

He takes a deep breath. "Okay. How about, we just… watch something. Until you're… feeling better."

Tony's eyes are closed again. He nods.

Peter turns on the T.V. and opts for the first movie available that doesn't feature too many explosions or aliens. Something about… cops and surfers? With the guy from the Matrix. Peter decides it's as good as anything.

Tony breathes next to him. Peter tracks the steady rise and fall of his chest out of the corner of his eye. He's not sure if Tony is asleep.

His question is answered ten minutes in when Tony heaves a sigh and throws a heavy arm over Peter's shoulders, pulling him closer. Tony shifts restlessly and suddenly they're flush against each other, sides and thighs pressing together from shoulder to knee. Peter's breath catches, but he doesn't pull back.

Peter hasn't really been paying attention to the movie, but now he finds himself desperately glued to the screen; anything not to think about how close Tony is, how warm he is, how solid. Peter can feel the man's every inhale and exhale against his own ribcage, and the sound of air passing in and out of his nose is loud and close in his ear. Peter shivers.

Apparently trying not to think about it isn't working.

Tony's head lolls and Peter feels something against his hair. He thinks it's Tony's nose. The man sighs again and Peter's flesh breaks out into goose bumps at the feeling of warm breath on his scalp.

Peter hopes that that's the end of it, that Tony has found a comfortable position—with his nose buried in Peter's hair, but Peter won't think about that—and they can just sit in peace. Then Tony moves again.

The hand on Peter's shoulder begins rubbing back and forth. Tony's fingers trace clumsy patterns on Peter's sleep shirt, then catch on his stretched-out collar. Peter's heart nearly jumps out of his chest.

The fingers do it again. Just a brush, barely there, of rough fingertips against his clavicle.

Peter's stomach is a dense knot of panic and want. His whole body is taught as a bowstring; his nails dig deep crescents into his palms.

Tony sighs into Peter's hair again. This time Peter hears a sound, so quiet that normal human hearing probably wouldn't catch it underneath the noise from the T.V.: Tony groans. A finger slips under Peter's collar.

Peter gasps silently and squeezes his eyes shut. He soon realizes his mistake, however, as immediately every other sense is hyper-attuned, like the sudden shift of pressing the HD button on the television. Peter feels as though every neuron in his somatosensory system is focused on Tony's single, thick, callused finger stroking along the hollow of his collarbone. The sounds of the movie fall away and all he can hear is Tony's breathing, steady but shallow, and the distinct drumming of his heart in his chest—not as rapid as Peter's own, but still accelerated.

And his  _smell_ —how did he not notice it before? Tony always smells so unmistakably… well, Tony. Masculine. Whiskey is the overpowering scent tonight, but underneath it Peter can still discern engine grease, musk, sharp mint. He lets out a shaky breath.

Should he pull away? Would that make it weird? It's already weird. Maybe no more weird than sharing a bed every night they're at the compound together. Maybe this is just more of their kind of weird. Or maybe it's different. It feels different. Peter wants different, but he shouldn't, he shouldn't like this, not when Tony is so drunk and he would never, ever touch him like this if he were sober—

Does that mean Tony  _wants_  to do this when he's sober, though? Is sobriety the only thing stopping Tony from touching Peter like this all the time? Does Tony even know what he's doing; is it a conscious thing, or is it just seeking contact with the warm body beside him?

Tony's finger is still petting absently at his bare skin under the collar. The light touch sends shudders of pleasure to Peter's gut, and he hates himself for it. He should pull away. He's going to, he's decided, any moment now—

With a huff, Tony shoves the collar aside. His fingers splay over Peter's bare shoulder. Peter chokes.

He bites his lip and doesn't even feel the sting when the copper taste of blood hits his tongue. Tony's fingers are curling into his flesh, but the man is still just sitting there, still with his face in Peter's hair, unmoved.

Peter is sure there's an embarrassing tent forming in the front of his pants, but he can't bring himself to look at his lap—let alone at Tony's. Which he could, if he wanted to. There's nothing stopping him. Except everything.

Tony doesn't know what he's doing. He probably doesn't even know whom he's sitting next to, Peter tells himself. He repeats the thought like a mantra, the final lifeline tethering him to sanity. Then:

"Peter."

It sears him like a flash of lightning. One quiet word. A murmur, a sigh, meant just for Tony himself, most likely. A statement, not a question.

It utterly wrecks Peter.

He hears a strangled noise, a pathetic whimper. With a start and a flush of shame he realizes it came from his own throat.

And he isn't the only one who heard.

Tony freezes. His fingers stop kneading into Peter's shoulder, and for a second Peter can't even hear the man breathe.

Then suddenly he's pulling back.

"Shit, Peter, I'm sorry," he's mumbling, and the clenching warmth in Peter's gut jumps into his chest, rising up his throat. The effect is much less pleasurable.

Tony is covering his face with one hand, using the other to clutch the back of the couch for support. He lets out an incomprehensible string of swears.

"N-no Tony, it's okay!" Peter rushes out, because those are the only stupid, unhelpful words his brain seems to remember at this precise moment. He tries to close the distance between them. His hand lands on Tony's knee. "You're allowed to touch me!"

Tony drops his hand from his face. He stares at Peter's hand. The movie is still playing in the background.

Suddenly, he stands. Peter follows, watching warily as Tony sways.

"I. Am too drunk for this," Tony wheezes, staring somewhere into the middle distance. "Go to bed, Peter."

"But—"

"Bed." Somehow, even in his drunken state, the man manages to sound authoritative. He won't brook any protest, Peter knows.

Peter bites his lip. "Um. Should I… I mean, where should I…"

Tony closes his eyes with a pained groan. "I don't care where you sleep. I'm staying here."

As if to make a point, Tony promptly kneels on the couch and falls forward into the cushions.

Peter stares down at him. He doesn't look particularly comfortable, but his eyes are closed, his breathing heavy. He could already be asleep.

Peter sighs. His eyes are moist. He blinks rapidly. God, he feels so stupid.

He turns off the television, then pulls a blanket over Tony. He gets a glass of water from the kitchen, and a trashcan, just in case, and places them both next to the sleeping man. He watches him breathe for a few moments. His throat feels tight.

"Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?" he asks, voice low, even though yelling probably wouldn't wake Tony at this point. "You'll keep an eye on him?"

"Of course, Peter."

"Thanks."

He goes back to his own bed. He barely sleeps.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony means to apologize. He does. It's just… every time he tells himself he's going to—every time he has an  _I'm sorry_ right behind his teeth—he looks at Peter and his throat closes up. Won't let the words pass. He has to swallow them down and regurgitate a  _hey, kid_  instead.  _How's the homework. Come check this simulation out. You hungry?_

The unspoken words settle back into his gut, burning on the way down. Tony feels nauseous often, these days.

Maybe that's just the alcohol withdrawal, though. He'd been doing better, sure, but he'd still been sneaking sips from his flask when no one was looking. Well, when Peter wasn't looking. It had been all too easy to hide it from the others. And when he was alone—that was a different story altogether.

But the day he awoke on the couch of the Avengers' living room feeling like Mjolnir had smashed open his skull he wrote a new protocol: Stay on the Wagon. Throw out all liquor on the premises of the penthouse and the Avengers facility. What belongs to someone else, or what he can't bear to waste—he's been saving that 1964 Glenlivet, dammit—gets locked down. No ordering more. No loopholes. The only way Tony can get a drink is if he goes out, and even then, the biochip he's implanted in his arm will alert F.R.I.D.A.Y. of a BAC of .08% or higher, and she in turn will alert Rhodey. Happy is the backup. Pepper is the backup of the backup.

God, Tony hopes he doesn't need that many backups.

It wasn't the headache, or the vomiting that came next, that made him do it, though. The cruelty of it is, there's a lot Tony doesn't remember about that night, and yet what he most wishes he could forget is what ends up emblazoned in his brain: the smell of Peter's hair. His warm presence next to him. Against him. His  _skin_ —God, so smooth. So hot to the touch—does Peter run warmer than the average human? And that  _sound_  he made, dragged up from the bottom of his lungs, when Tony squeezed his shoulder and let Peter's name fall from his lips.

Tony really wishes he could forget all of that. Peter probably thinks he has. Maybe Tony should leave it that way. It makes it easier to face Peter, easier to let him come back to his room for the night as usual—pick up where they left off as though nothing's happened.

His hand shakes as he taps on his StarkPhone. It's 8:40 a.m. on a Saturday: one week of Stay on the Wagon. The shaking, the nausea, have nothing to do with the fact that Peter is sitting across from him at the kitchen counter, eating his cereal; nothing to do with the fact that Peter slept in his bed again last night; nothing to do with the words sticking in Tony's throat. They have everything to do with the fact that Tony needs a fucking drink—something a lot stronger than the black coffee that is his breakfast. Come to think of it, the coffee's probably not helping the tremors, or his stomach, either.

Peter finishes his bowl and comes around the counter to put it in the sink next to Tony. Tony keeps his eyes resolutely on his phone. Takes another sip.

"Your hand's shaking."

Tony nearly spills the goddamn coffee. He sets it down before his hand can betray him any more, and glances at the kid.

"Happens when you get old."

Peter frowns. "You're not old. And you usually have steady hands."

Tony wants to argue. Instead, he clamps his jaw shut. He can feel perspiration gathering at his hairline.

_Now's your chance. You're sorry. You never should have— You didn't mean to—_

Peter's frown turns into a worried crease. "Are you… okay?"

Tony blinks.

"You seem stressed."

Tony laughs. It sounds manic; he stops. "Yeah, no kidding. Have you seen the schedule Fury's got me on? I swear to God, his deadlines are locked in a contest with Brooklyn hipsters' jeans to see which can get tightest."

Tony thinks that deserves a chuckle—hell, at least a quirk of the lips—

Nothing. Peter still has that concerned look on his face.

Tony can feel the bile rising. He shouldn't have had the coffee.

Peter lays a hand on Tony's forearm. He can probably feel the clench of Tony's muscles beneath his fingers. Tony is wearing a short-sleeve tee; it's skin on skin.

Damn, the kid's hands really are hot. It must have something to do with spider metabolism. Tony makes a mental note to run some tests.

He could pull away, now. He could make it seem natural—go put his cup in the sink, say it's time to get to the lab.

He doesn't. He lets Peter's hand stay. He meets his too-earnest, wide, amber eyes. And tries to convince himself he's not going to be sick.

…

"Things going well with Wilson? Kick his ass yet this weekend?"

Tony doesn't know why he's bringing it up. It's like a scab he can't help but pick.

"Yes, and no, respectively," Peter responds, focusing on the chemical compounds he's mixing in a test tube. "I have a lot to learn from him."

"Hm."

Two weeks since Stay on the Wagon was initiated and Wilson joined the routine. Tony hasn't been back to the gym during their training sessions. He doesn't relish the idea of being cornered again by the Avengers' therapist-in-residence.

"It's sort of fun, actually. The sparring," Peter says.

Tony glances at him. "You're not having fun now?"

"What?" Peter looks up from his test tube, frowns. "I didn't say that."

Tony mentally slaps himself. God, he's acting like a jealous middle schooler. "Never mind." He turns back towards his schematics so he doesn't have to see the suspicious look on Peter's face.

He clears his throat, tries again. "You like him, though. Wilson. That's good." That shouldn't be as hard to say as it is.

"Yeah. I mean, it's not just that I like  _him_ , it's that… I dunno. I've never been part of the team, y'know? I mean, I'm  _on_  the team, but like, we're not a team… Not like it used to be." Peter's voice is soft now. "And I just think… maybe having Sam around will change that."

Tony's chest clenches.  _I'm not enough?_ he wants to ask.

He doesn't. Because this is good for the kid, this is healthy. This is what Maria and Aunt May wanted. And apparently, what Peter wants, too.

This is good.

"Yeah," he forces himself to agree.

He sneaks a look over his shoulder at Peter, head bowed over his chemicals. His hair shines in the luminescence of the holo-displays around him. Tony wants to go over there and run his fingers through it, smell it. He wants to hold Peter.

He can't. He also can't excuse himself to go swallow down a surreptitious drink. Instead, he digs the fingers of his right hand into the inside of his other arm as hard as he can, leaving deep, crescent-shaped welts, until the pain is all he can focus on. It clears his head enough that he can get back to work.

…

It's the third weekend of Stay on the Wagon. Tony wishes he had a glass of wine to go with his carbonara. Wouldn't even have to be Pinot Grigio. He'd take anything—hell, he'd even drink red.

He takes a gulp of water instead and glances at Peter across the counter. The kid looks as tired as Tony feels, and it's only Friday night.

"Lousy week?" he ventures. He hasn't seen Peter since he came by the penthouse on Tuesday, and that was only for a brief visit. May is keeping close tabs on the kid and how he spends his time.

To tell the truth, Tony's missed him. It was a long three days to get through without a drink or Peter.

Peter shrugs, twirls spaghetti around his fork. "Normal."

"Hm." That doesn't rule out lousy. Confirms it, actually. Tony's heart aches.

Peter opens his mouth, hesitates. His eyes are still on his plate. "Ned's… sort of upset with me."

Tony raises an eyebrow at that. He's never heard of Peter having so much as a disagreement with his best friend in all the time he's known him.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Peter purses his lips. "He wants me to take off next weekend for my birthday. I told him no."

Tony feels like an idiot. Peter's birthday—how could he forget? He remembered last year, gave the kid a StarkPhone. But he's been so caught up in sobriety protocols and—well, the kid. Ironic, that. He only has one week to figure out Peter's present.

He tries to take it in stride, focus on the matter at hand. He thinks a moment about his next words. "You guys still hang out after school?"

Peter shrugs. "Sometimes." After a moment he adds, more quietly, "not a lot."

"He probably misses you."

Peter gives up on the spaghetti and places his fork on the table. His face is downturned, but Tony still catches— _oh no_ —the slight tremble in his lip.

"I'm a terrible friend," Peter whispers.

Tony is alarmed to realize how tense he is, how hard he's clenching his jaw, at the sight of Peter Parker close to tears.

"No, Peter, you're not," he says quickly.

"Pretty sure I am." Peter smiles ruefully.

"You're a good friend to me." Tony says it before he can think it through.

Peter's eyes—finally—rise to meet Tony's, wide with surprise.

 _He's not supposed to be your friend, Tony._  It's Rhodey's voice, in the back of Tony's head again.  _Not over Ned. Not over someone his own age._

Tony clears his throat. "I mean. You're a good friend, because you're a good person. Which means you can be a good friend to Ned again. With a bit of time. All friendships go through rough patches."

Tony watches Peter's face, hoping it's enough. He doesn't think about how practically every friendship in his life eventually reached the rough patch it couldn't get through. All except Rhodey. And Peter.

There's still a dubious twist to Peter's lips, but his eyes are less clouded than before, so Tony counts it as a win.

"Hey. How about we watch some TV and call it a night?" Tony had planned to return to the lab, but the kid deserves a break.

The creases in Peter's forehead disappear. "Can we watch Rick and Morty?"

"Ah—" Tony's not sure how he feels about watching a hard-drinking mad scientist drag his young protégé into life-threatening situations and generally leave a trail of both physical and emotional destruction behind him. "I was thinking Bojack Horseman?" Another alcoholic, but Tony thinks the troubles of a has-been Hollywood actor are removed enough from his own reality to be safe.

Luckily, Peter quirks a smile. "Sure."

They clear their plates and make their way across the open plan common area to the couch. Peter settles against an armrest; Tony sits a solid few feet away. He puts on an episode and leans back.

It's good like this, Tony thinks. They're distracted. He gets to hear Peter's tinkling laugh, and hell, the show has him laughing, too. His face muscles feel unaccustomed to smiling this much.

When the first episode finishes, they let another start on autoplay.

Peter rearranges himself. He lies down with his head against the armrest, his knees bent towards the ceiling and his bare feet planted on the couch inches from Tony's thigh. Tony glances down at them, then back at the screen.

A few minutes later, Peter shifts. His feet slide forward, intentionally. Tony tenses as he feels Peter's toes lodge themselves snugly under his leg, as though they belong there.

Before he can think, his hand closes around Peter's ankle. He needs to push him away, let him know somehow that he really shouldn't do that, it's not the most appropriate position—

His eyes meet Peter's. Peter is staring at him in thinly disguised shock, eyes wide with anticipation and lips pressed tight.

Tony feels the air go out of him. Peter doesn't deserve an admonishment; he's not doing anything wrong. Didn't Tony just call him a good friend? And this… this is nothing compared to sharing a bed every night. Tony's acting like a fucking hypocrite.

He swallows dryly. He needs to let go of Peter's ankle, but he can't. His hand feels glued in place.

"Cold feet?" he finds himself asking.

Peter's lips part, but he doesn't say anything, merely nods.

Tony notices just how slender Peter's ankle is; his hand closes nearly the whole way around it. He can feel the bones jutting sharp against his palm. His thumb brushes, just barely, along the smooth skin next to Peter's anklebone.

Peter inhales. It's quiet, but Tony catches it. Peter's eyes are dark, intent.

Just like that, Tony can move his hand again. He drops it quickly. He can feel the imprint of Peter's ankle like a brand on his palm. He forces himself to look back at the screen, but he's certain Peter's eyes are still on him.

When he dares to glance back at Peter's face, four minutes later, the kid's attention is back on the T.V. Tony relaxes, allows himself to laugh at the jokes again. He can't ignore the feeling of Peter's toes under his leg, though. Every once in a while they wiggle, just a little.

Peter speaks when the third episode is queuing up. "If you were an animal in the Bojack world, what would you be?" Peter's eyes are still on the screen, a thoughtful look on his face.

Tony shrugs. "I dunno. How about a human animal?"

"That's cheating." Peter purses his lips.

Tony chuckles. "Well what do you think I'd be?"

Peter seems to consider the question seriously. Tony watches him—he's not staring, he swears—as the gears turn behind Peter's eyes.

"A turtle."

Tony snorts. "What? The guy with over a dozen sports cars and a flying suit with a top speed over Mach 8?"

Peter shrugs. "Slow and steady wins the race." He casts him a significant look that makes Tony frown slightly. "Besides," Peter continues, eyes flicking back to the T.V., "a turtle takes its armor with it everywhere it goes."

Tony blinks. "Damn. You got me there," he says quietly, mulling over Peter's words. The kid's easy response makes him feel unnervingly transparent.

"So? What do you think I would be?" Peter prompts.

Tony grins. "That's obvious. Spider."

Peter scoffs. He takes a throw pillow from the corner of the couch and tosses it in Tony's face. Tony chuckles as he bats it down.

Peter is grinning now, too. "Cheater. C'mon, anything other than a spider."

"Alright, alright." Tony thinks a moment. "Mm… dog."

Peter looks unimpressed. "A dog? Really?"

"Yeah." The more Tony thinks about it, the surer he is. "Dogs are intrinsically good. Heroic, even. And loyal."  _Driven by the need for approval_ , he doesn't add.

The amused smile on Peter's face falters. He drops his gaze.

Tony's brow furrows. He waits for Peter to speak.

"I don't feel very good or loyal right now."

Tony's lungs tighten. He turns off the television. The sudden silence is dense around them.

He sighs. "Pete, trust me. You are one of the most good, most loyal super heroes I know. Scratch that—people. You're one of the best of them, kid."

Peter still won't meet his eyes. "Then why am I—" Peter stops, swallows. "I'm pushing away everyone who cares about me. I'm making them worry. And I can't stop."

Tony's mouth sets unhappily. Not for the first time, he's scared by how much of himself he sees in Peter.

"Everyone needs space sometimes, Pete. The true friends will still be there when you come back. Aunt May and Ned—they strike me as the true friend types. Just make sure you apologize to them, when you're ready."

Tony doesn't tell him that sometimes apologizing isn't enough, or that sometimes the ones you thought were true friends aren't. Or maybe they were, but you managed to drive them away anyhow. He decides Peter doesn't need to worry about that, just yet. Not at his age.

Peter looks at him, his eyes wide and shimmering and—grateful. So goddamn grateful and Tony doesn't know what on Earth he's done to deserve  _that_  look from Peter Parker, of all people.

Peter's hand slides along the couch cushion towards Tony. He reaches up and takes a hold of Tony's sleeve, tugging gingerly. Confused, Tony allows his arm to be pulled towards Peter—but Peter doesn't stop there. He pulls harder, so Tony is leaning over him, until he has to catch himself on his elbow in the space between Peter and the back of the couch.

Tony blinks down at Peter, alarmingly close to his face.

"Thanks, Tony," Peter breathes, and Tony wonders if that's it, if that's all the kid tugged him down here to say.

"'Course, pal. I've had to learn a thing or two about getting the good ones to stick around." Like Rhodey. He still has Rhodey.

He swallows, thinks about sitting back upright—but Peter is looking at him intently, as if there's something else he wants to say.

Tony waits, but Peter just watches him. Maybe Tony should say something. The silence between them at this close proximity is too heavy.

He should probably encourage Peter to take the weekend off for his birthday, spend it with friends and family like a normal teenager. Start making up with Ned. Tony should insist, in fact. He considers it, for a moment.

But no, Peter is—well, not an adult, he reminds himself sternly. But he's nearly there, and he's a super hero and Avenger besides. More than capable of making his own decisions. And on a personal matter like this, Tony should be letting Peter make the call, not interfering like an overbearing parent.

_You don't have any special claim on him._

_Yeah, I know, see? Stuff it, Wilson._

_You're only keeping quiet because you don't want Peter to take the weekend off._

"You sure you don't want to take the weekend off?" Tony blurts out. "For your birthday?"

_So there._

God, he's sassing the voices in his head now. He needs to stop that before it becomes a habit.

Peter worries his bottom lip with his teeth. Tony notices—because of course he does, he's a foot and a half from the kid's face, so sue him—and then resolutely locks eyes with him again.

He really should sit up. This is more than a little weird, this position they're in. His front is pressed to Peter's hip and side. Peter's feet are still burrowed underneath his thigh. If anyone saw them like this… there would be questions. But Wilson and Rhodey aren't getting in until tomorrow; they have the Avengers' quarters to themselves. Tony just has to remember to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to delete some footage. Just in case.

"Why, do you want me to?" Peter asks quietly.

Tony blinks. "What?"

"Do you want me to take the weekend off?"

"Kid, this—" Tony wets his lips—"this isn't about what I want. What do  _you_  want?"

"I want to be here."

Tony swallows. He walked right into that. He can't argue with the kid now, not when he told him it was his choice.

He nods curtly. "Okay then. Just checking."

Peter's eyes look troubled as he gazes up at Tony. Tony looks away, trying desperately to appear casual, but he's  _right there_ , right up against Peter and why hasn't he moved yet—

"Why do you let me sleep in your bed?"

The words are quiet, but they strike Tony like a punch straight to the solar plexus. His eyes fix onto Peter's face. He looks nervous and so, so young.

"I mean, not that I'm complaining," Peter rushes out, a blush rising in his cheeks. "I'm not, complaining. I mean, I'm really grateful that you—I mean, I said I wanted to—you know, to be close, and, and that's what it is, right? And I mean, I don't wanna make it weird or anything, I really appreciate—'cause I mean, you trust me, and that's—what I mean is, I don't—I'm not trying to mess it up, or change anything or—I just—why? I wanna know why."

Peter clamps his lips shut, a mortified expression on his face. Tony softens at that, some of the tension seeping from his shoulders, trying to put Peter at ease.

Why did he invite the kid back to his room? After Peter had tried to kiss him—there hadn't been any expectation they'd keep it up after that first night. So why…?

"You… said you have dreams," Tony finds himself murmuring.

Peter just watches his face, wide-eyed.

Tony swallows. "I know what that's like."

It's the truth; most of it, anyway. He doesn't mention that his own dreams are part of the reason he wants Peter close, that it's as much for his sake as the kid's.

Peter's lips part. He sags, blush receding from his cheeks. "Oh. Yeah," he says quietly. "What—what helps you?"

Tony thinks for a moment, about all the answers he could give Peter.  _Fifth of whiskey used to do the trick._  He doesn't say that.  _Not anymore._

Finally, he settles on honesty.

"You."

Peter's eyes widen for a moment, but he doesn't resort to his stuttering, flustered state, to Tony's relief. He maintains steady eye contact as he asks breathlessly, "Did Pepper help too?"

Tony's breath catches. He didn't expect that Peter would ever bring Pepper up so directly. He tries not to think about what it means that Peter seems to be comparing himself to Tony's former fiancée, either.

He swallows again, notices Peter's eyes flick to his throat and back. Tony's heart is pounding in his ribcage. Peter feels so warm, snug against him—closer than they are when they share a bed. No blankets between them now.

Tony shakes his head. "No. She—um. I actually. Nearly got her killed, once. Installed these chips in my arm to call my suit if I was in danger. We were in bed, I had a nightmare—didn't count on that being enough to activate them. Suit showed up, identified Pep as the threat. I woke up just on time to stop it. She, uh, didn't sleep in the same bed with me for a while after that."

He's not sure why he added that last bit. The kid doesn't need to hear about the past sleeping arrangements and relationship woes of a middle-aged man.

He shakes his head again. "It was stupid. Stupid oversight," he whispers.

Peter's hand lands on his shoulder. It's warm; Tony wants to lean into it.

"You were trying to protect her," Peter says softly. "You were just trying to protect her better. That's what you always want: to protect people."

There's a lump in Tony's throat. God, what is he doing. Seeking comfort from a not-even-seventeen-year-old. He's pathetic.

And worse: some part of him does feel comforted. Peter's words soothe him. His hand on his shoulder soothes him. His body heat, his presence, the closeness—Tony wants to get closer still, wrap his arms around him so he can't see or feel anything but Peter.  _Pathetic, pathetic._

He meets his gaze. Peter doesn't care if he's pathetic. Or he doesn't see it. His eyes are wide and so goddamn full of acceptance and understanding and a million things Tony doesn't deserve, especially from someone as good— _as young_ , a voice whispers to him—as Peter Parker. And all he wants to do is sink into it. He holds his gaze, holds it, drinks it in…

The  _click_  of a door opening shatters the moment.

Peter springs off the couch in one agile movement. Tony takes a moment longer to sit upright. His heart is in his throat before he can even see whose footsteps have faltered on the far side of the room.

He turns. His blood freezes.

Rhodey is standing just inside the double doors that lead to the main entrance, and he's staring at them.

"Colonel Rhodes! Hi, nice to see you, sir."

Damn, Tony's gotta give the kid credit—he can keep his cool when it really counts. His voice is pitched only slightly higher than usual.

Rhodey is silent.

Tony needs to say something. He needs to, now. He can't leave Peter to do all the talking.

"Pete, why don't you head to bed." He forces the words out with an assuredness he doesn't feel. "Early start tomorrow. Rest well, kid."

"Oh, um. Right." Peter sounds reluctant, but thankfully he doesn't try to argue. "Good night, Tony. Colonel Rhodes."

Peter leaves. Rhodey still hasn't moved.

Tony can feel the nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin, his breathing accelerating with his heart rate. He stands abruptly.

"Thought I wasn't gonna see you till tomorrow," he says without looking at Rhodey. He makes his way to the kitchen. He doesn't know why; he'll figure it out when he gets there. He just needs to move.

He can hear the soft whirr of Rhodey's braces as he follows. Tony tenses. He spots the dinner dishes in the sink. Ah, perfect.

He opens the dishwasher and begins loading in the plates.

"I got a meeting with Hill and Fury first thing in the morning," Rhodey says behind him. His tone is indecipherable. "Thought it'd be smart to stay the night."

Tony sniffs, nods. Rinses the forks.

"We gonna talk about it?" Rhodey asks quietly.

Tony grips the forks tighter, forces himself to drop them into the silverware holder.

"About what?" he barely manages to mutter, grabbing the door of the dishwasher.

"About what I just saw."

Tony slams it shut harder than he meant to. "What did you just see." It comes out flat, tight.

"You tell me."

To anyone else, Rhodey might sound surprisingly calm right now. But Tony knows his friend. He can hear the warning in his voice. Danger. No strikes left.

He realizes his hands are shaking. He clutches the edge of the marble countertop to stop them as much as to hold himself up. He can feel a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

"It's not—" he forces out, swallows. "It's not what it looks like—"

"Because you know what it looks like, right, Tony?"

Oh shit. Shit. That's the angry Rhodey voice. Tony hasn't heard that directed at him since—

"Tell me I'm wrong." Rhodey's challenge cuts through his thoughts.

"God, I'm not—" Tony grits out. He can't do this. His heart is pounding. His arm spasms and he grips onto it reflexively. Finally he looks at Rhodey. His friend's face is gravely serious and two degrees away from livid.

Tony did that. Tony deserves that. And yet—

"Jesus," he gasps. "Who do you think I am?" Because this is Rhodey, Rhodey who's supposed to trust him, give him the benefit of the doubt—unless Tony's worn that out. Betrayed trust one too many times.

But he hasn't  _done_ anything, goddammit. He hasn't even actually  _done anything_ and—"Do you really think I could hurt Peter?" he adds before he can stop himself.

Rhodey truly can look intimidating when he wants to. Tony forgets that, sometimes.  _War Machine._  He doesn't need the suit to make a person cower, though.

"I don't think you know the difference between hurting and helping when it comes to that kid anymore." His voice slices Tony like a whip.

Tony can't face him. He blinks rapidly at the countertop. "Don't say that. Don't say that."

"I mean it, Tony. That—what the hell was that, if it wasn't what it looked like?"

"I was—" Fuck. Fuck, his eyes are wet. He gasps in shallow breaths. "I was trying to comfort him—Rhodey, c'mon man, you gotta believe me…"

 _It's the truth_ , he thinks desperately. He's not lying. He doesn't say that Peter was comforting him too—Rhodey doesn't need to know that. But it's still the truth, he had been trying to comfort Peter—

"Look at me, Tony." Rhodey's voice is quieter now. Some of the fight gone out of it. Tony's shoulders slump in relief, but he still can't look at the man.

"Look at me and tell me nothing is going on between you and Peter," he says evenly, carefully.

Tony draws in a rattling breath, and meets his friend's eyes.

"Nothing is going on between me and Peter." He feels hollow as he says it. Even though it's the truth.  _It's the truth._

It hits him like a smack in the face. He's standing here in this kitchen, being forced to promise his best friend of over thirty years that he's not having an affair with an underage kid. That he's not—an  _abuser_.

He can feel something sharp rising inside him, like he's regurgitating a piece of broken glass. "Jesus Christ," he chokes. His hand presses over his face.

Oh God, he's going to have a panic attack. He's going to have one right here in the kitchen in front of Rhodey, and yeah Rhodey's seen it before but Tony can't afford this now, not now not now—

"Okay, okay." Rhodey's voice is close now, softer. Almost gentle. "Hey, I believe you, Tones. I believe you. Tony, breathe."

Tony forces himself to comply. He draws in a great, ugly gasp and tries to let it out slow. Instead, the air is punched from his lungs.

"Breathe."

He tries again. Rhodey talks him through it. Again. Again, until he's doing something vaguely resembling normal respiration.

He drops his hand, risks a look at Rhodey's face. His friend's eyes are concerned, but also—sad. Pitying.

Tony feels ill. He has to look away.

"Tony," Rhodey says quietly. He sounds pained. "Tony, you gotta know, man. You gotta know that's not how you comfort a kid that's not your own."

Tony hates the pain in his voice. He hates the note of caution even more—as if Rhodey's afraid of setting him off again. Well, he's not wrong to worry, but that doesn't stop Tony from hating it.

Tony swallows down the bile. "Peter's not just any kid." Even as he says it, he knows it's no excuse. But still. He's told Rhodey, he's explained to him  _why_ —why can't he just understand that—"We—he…"

_He's the one good thing. The one I got back. The one I felt die in my arms…_

For a moment, the bitter, burnt smell and taste of  _Peter's ashes_  blowing into his face overwhelms him, they're in his nostrils and on his tongue and the orange light of a foreign star is blinding him—

He fights his gag reflex, swallows it down. Goes to the sink, jerks the nozzle on and splashes his face with cool water. Takes a shaky breath. Turns the water off, stands dripping over the sink.

"I know. I know, Tony." Rhodey sighs wearily. "Look. I get it. I get that you and Peter… can't be normal."

Tony watches the water droplets fall from the tip of his nose to the bottom of the steel sink.

"But this… it's some sort of twisted, Tony. You gotta see that," Rhodey pleads.

Tony grits his teeth. "What do you want me to do?" he asks, frustrated, helpless.

There's a pause, as though Rhodey's considering. "I want you to be careful."

Tony looks up, lets the water droplets run down his face and neck and soak into his collar.

"Of what?"

It's not a challenge; he's too drained for that. He really wants to know. Because he has no clue what he's doing, what he's supposed to do. He needs answers.

Rhodey's lips press together and he regards Tony for a solemn moment.

"Just don't take anything from that kid that you can't give back."

Tony feels flayed. Exposed, raw. He has no words.

Rhodey sighs again. "Look, I gotta go, Tony… See you tomorrow."

Tony listens to the electric whirr of Rhodey's legs retreat down the hall towards the rooms. It doesn't even occur to him to say good night.

He stands stock still in the kitchen for a minute. Two minutes. Three. Maybe more. The moisture on his face has evaporated by the time he's finally able to put one foot in front of the other and make his way back to his room on autopilot.

There's no Peter waiting for him. He didn't expect there to be.

Tony changes and climbs into bed. He lays back, staring at the ceiling.

_Don't take anything from that kid you can't give back._

Why does he feel so goddamn guilty? As if he's gotten away with something.

But he didn't lie. He didn't lie to Rhodey. He didn't lie to his best friend.

His best friend, who, for at least a moment, thought that it was possible. That Tony really could be… inappropriately involved, with Peter.

Then again, what is sleeping in the same bed with the kid if not inappropriate involvement?

That's not what Rhodey meant, though, Tony reminds himself. Rhodey thought they might actually be—that Tony might be…

His gut lurches. He refuses to think it. There's a line between  _that_  and what he and Peter are doing. There's a line.

Rhodey thought he'd crossed that line.

The thought sits, sick and ugly, in the pit of Tony's stomach. His best friend in the world thought he was capable of that. What does that say about him.

_That you are capable—_

_NO._

No, he's not. He can't even think it—

A soft knock at the door.

Tony's heartbeat accelerates. "F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Who's there?"

"Peter Parker is outside your door, boss."

His heart thumps harder. It's almost painful against his sternum. "Let him in."

Tony listens as the outside door of the suite opens and closes. Soft footsteps across the other room, until—

Peter stands in the doorway. They stare at each other. Tony can't see his face in the dark, but he's sure he can feel his eyes on him.

Silently, he pulls back the covers on Peter's side of the bed.

Peter only hesitates one second before coming around and crawling into his customary place.

They settle down, side by side, on the pillows. Close, but not touching.

They could, though. Tony is all too aware that they could touch. No blankets between them now.

"Wasn't sure you'd come," he whispers.

"I need to get a good night's sleep," Peter replies, matter-of-fact. "Won't do that in my own bed."

The easy admission of how much they need this—how incapable they are of functioning without it—frightens Tony.

He clears his throat. "He didn't see you?" He knows he doesn't need to specify whom he's talking about.

"No." Peter hesitates. "What did he say?"

"Don't worry about it, Pete."

"But—"

Tony turns his head to face him. "Don't worry," he repeats, firmly. He can just make out the outline of Peter's face, but he can feel the tension radiating off of him.

He moves automatically. Rolls onto his side towards Peter, stretches out an arm to lay across his abdomen. Inches in close, like they were on the couch.

"Everything's fine," he murmurs.

Peter is tense against him, barely breathing. Tony tries to communicate comfort, tries to transfer it from his body to Peter's.

_That's not how you comfort a kid that's not your own._

Tony knows. He knows, but… Peter  _is_  his own. In a way. Not how Rhodey meant, but. Tony's the only one who understands. The only one the kid can look to for comfort. Peter's said as much.

_It's some sort of twisted._

Tony knows that, too. But there's a line. He hasn't crossed it. And right now, Peter is in his arms, and he's staying there. He's solid, and real, and warm and alive. Tony can smell him: some mix of Old Spice, whatever detergent May uses, and something natural, unidentifiable. It seeps into Tony, eases the tension in his joints.

Peter lets out a soft sigh, and Tony feels him start to relax.

"Go to sleep, Peter."

He closes his eyes, and concentrates on how his arm rises and falls with Peter's breathing. Steady. Not going anywhere. Warm. Alive.

Steady. Warm. Alive.

Steady…

Tony's eyes open. He's not sure how long it's been, or if he's even been properly asleep yet. But Peter is awake.

His breathing isn't steady anymore. It's shallow, labored. The muscles under Tony's arm are clenched, as if Peter's trying not to move. Tony can hear him let out little huffs of effort. Every few seconds, a leg twitches. Tony feels him shift his hips subtly.

All of a sudden, Tony understands what's happening: Peter is aroused.

He sits with the realization for a moment, waiting for the sky to crash down around his ears.

It doesn't.

There's a surprising lack of embarrassment at the knowledge that Peter is hard, right next to him. That Tony's made him hard. Maybe embarrassment isn't the right word. That's not what he should be feeling.

Shame. That's the one.

Tony should have expected this, after all.  _Maybe you did expect this_ , a voice insinuates. Tony ignores it, tries to think what to do.

Maybe he should just do nothing. Let the kid think he's asleep, save his pride.

Before he can consider further options, Peter moves. He's sliding away, carefully, as though afraid of waking Tony. So, at least the kid hasn't noticed he's not asleep. Peter moves one inch at a time, until Tony's arm droops onto the bed, encasing nothing but air. Peter rises quietly and heads to the ensuite bathroom.

He's going to jerk off.

Tony turns the thought over dispassionately. Shouldn't he be ashamed? He's the cause of this. This can't be good for the kid and his crush. Tony should have known better.

_Maybe you just don't care._

Tony frowns at that. He does care about the kid. Is it not the same thing?

He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling again. Listens.

He can't catch any sounds from the bathroom. There's no proof that that's what Peter's doing.

But then, he would hear the toilet, or the sink running, if it were anything else, wouldn't he?

His stomach clenches.

No, there can't be any doubt. Peter is in the next room, touching himself. Thinking about Tony.

A bolt of heat runs through him. Pools in his groin.

Oh. Oh. There it is. Shame.

Tony's fingers grip the sheets. Why is he—this shouldn't be—

What's Peter imagining, exactly?

No. No, no. Tony doesn't want to know that. He most definitely does not want to know that.

He swallows thickly. It feels like there's something lodged in his throat.

He won't think about it. He won't think about what face Peter might be making—

Oh,  _fuck_. No. No, don't picture how sweat might plaster his curls to his forehead—

Tony's cock twitches. His heart races. He bites the back of his hand,  _hard_. He won't, he won't—

Peter's eyes screwed shut. His pink mouth, slack and panting—

Tony stifles a sound—something between a groan and a whimper. He curls up on his side. Oh God, why is this—? He's not—no. Rhodey was wrong about him. He was wrong, Tony wouldn't, would never—

The bathroom sink turns on. Off. Tony holds his breath.

The door opens and closes again, and Peter pads back to the bed.

Tony feels ready to jump out of his skin when the kid slides under the covers behind him. He hears a surprised inhale.

"Tony? You awake?"

There's nothing for it. "Yeah." His voice sounds like it's been raked over hot coals.

"Oh." Silence. Then, "I… didn't mean to wake you up."

"S'okay."

Tony can feel Peter's eyes on his back. He tries to relax. Even out his breathing. Slow his heart. God, the kid can probably hear it.

"Go back to sleep, Peter."

"Right."

But Tony can still feel Peter looking at him. He knows he is.

"Quit staring at me, kid, and go to sleep."

Another small gasp. "S-sorry."

Tony crumples at that one word. He turns back towards Peter. He feels calmer now. All traces of involuntary arousal gone.

"It's okay, kid. Just, try to get some sleep."

He hears Peter swallow, sees him nod. Peter shifts closer, until their arms brush.

Tony understands it for what it is: an invitation. A request.

He knows he shouldn't. Especially considering… what just happened.

But then, nothing  _happened_. What Peter does behind closed doors is his own business. And Tony's never had illusions about what Peter does after leaving his room in the morning with a hard-on. This isn't any different.

As for Tony… it was only thoughts. Thoughts he couldn't help, and a reaction he was powerless to stop. But thinking something is not the same as wanting it.

He doesn't. He doesn't  _want_ —not like that. Even if those thoughts made him feel—it's different than actually doing. He couldn't. Not to Peter. He's not—one of  _those_  people.

That's what Tony tells himself as he brings an arm around Peter again, and Peter huddles against him. It's what he repeats in his head as he sags in relief at the warmth of Peter against his chest, the scent of him in his nose.

That's not who he is. Rhodey was wrong. There's a line.

There's a fucking line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been supporting this fic. It means a lot to me, and I appreciate your patience as I get busier and it gets harder to find the time to work on this. On that note, I think I ought to say something about my update schedule: I don't have one. I cannot, with all my other responsibilities, commit to any sort of regular updates. I write and post when I am able. So please, when you're leaving a comment, be conscientious of that. Maybe you're used to following stories that update weekly, but that's never been my modus operandi and frankly, it's impossible for me. Maybe you're not used to waiting a month for a new chapter, but that's not going to be at all unusual for this story. I hope you consider it worth the wait. I'm always glad to hear that you can't wait for the next chapter, but if it sounds like you're demanding an update it can be frustrating for me. I'm doing my best. I'm not saying you can't write things like "I'm dying!" (lol)--I'm just requesting that you be aware how you're coming off. Thank you guys for your understanding and patience.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Thank you all so so much for your patience, and for all the amazing responses I’ve gotten to this story so far. They really do motivate me to keep going. I hope the length of this chapter makes up at least a little for the long wait.  
> 

Peter turns seventeen on a Saturday.

It’s as good a birthday as Peter could hope for, given recent circumstances.  For starters, he wakes up in Tony’s bed, with Tony’s heavy, muscled arm slung over him.

Peter relishes waking up like this.  He’s thrilled that Tony hasn’t insisted on reinstating the blanket barrier; he wonders what’s changed in Tony’s mind, but doesn’t dare ask.  He doesn’t want to jeopardize this: waking up wrapped in the heat and smell of Tony’s body, the weight of his arm over him, Tony’s side or chest against him.  Tony’s face, sleep-soft, inches away from his own on the pillows.

Tony looks so much younger when he’s asleep.  So many of the lines that carve his face during the day simply smooth away when he’s sleeping next to Peter, unburdened of his worries.  It makes Peter sad to think about what causes all those creases to reappear when he’s awake. But he remembers Tony’s answer to his question: _what helps?—You._  He cherishes it, the knowledge that he can do something for Tony that not even Pepper could, that he can ease his mind, at least in sleep.

The morning of his birthday Peter wakes before Tony and allows himself to watch his face for a minute, take in his peaceful features.  He feels safe here, under the sheets and Tony’s arm, close enough to feel a warm brush of air on his cheek with Tony’s every exhale. He tries to ignore his half-erection, hoping it will fade quickly.

 _Waking up like this, it’s like we’re married,_ he thinks—then quickly backtracks, as though afraid Tony would be able to overhear his embarrassing fantasy.

It’s not long before Tony stirs, and Peter pretends he’s just waking up too.  Tony blinks sleepily; his eyes land on Peter, widen slightly, as though surprised to find him so close.  He recovers quickly, though, and doesn’t pull away, Peter notes with satisfaction coiling warm in his belly.  He smiles at Tony tentatively.

“Morning, birthday boy,” the man rumbles in his scratchy morning voice.  Peter still flushes at the thought that he’s among the privileged few who have ever heard that voice from the pillow next to them.

“Morning,” greets Peter, relishing his close view of Tony’s round brown eyes.  They’re trained on him, observing—admiring, even? Maybe he’s just letting his imagination get carried away.

Tony clears his throat and sits upright, retracting his arm.  Peter tries not to feel too disappointed and sits up as well.

“You think about how you want to spend your birthday?” Tony asks casually, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders.

Peter shrugs.  He hasn’t really.  “What we normally do, I guess.  Just, spend time with you, in the lab and stuff…” he says honestly.

Tony looks at him sideways, and Peter thinks he catches a hint of fondness in his eyes—but also sadness.

Tony looks away quickly.  “Well, good, ’cause you’re stuck with me whether you like it or not, kid.”  He claps him on the shoulder. “Go get cleaned up and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.  How do you feel about pancakes for a birthday breakfast?”

Peter grins.  “Perfect.”

Tony smirks back.  “With chocolate chips?”

Peter raises an eyebrow.  “Do you really need to ask?”

Tony snorts.  “Alright. Don’t take too long or they might be gone before you get there.”

Peter makes his exit, hoping the slight tent in his boxers isn’t too apparent.  When he reaches his room, he’s still half-hard, and decides to jerk off—quick one, for results, not to savor.  Just to calm down a bit. He throws on a fresh T-shirt and sweats—he figures it’s his prerogative to go casual, on his birthday, but he does at least make an attempt at taming his wild bedhead.  He can’t help himself: he wants to look good for Tony. “I woke up like this” kind of good. Of course, Tony knows he didn’t wake up like that—because he literally woke up _next to him_ —but still.  It’s an aesthetic choice.

When he arrives in the kitchen, Tony is already dressed and in front of the range, mixing bowl in hand.  Peter sits on a barstool and watches him work.

“So, how does it feel to be seventeen?” Tony inquires as he cracks an egg.

Peter thinks for a moment, tries to listen to his body.  “Not any different,” he concludes.

“Well, it’s not one of the biggies, I guess.  The awkward limbo between sweet sixteen and legal adulthood, right?  Nothing to gain, no driver’s license or voting rights.”

Peter shrugs.  “There’s sex,” he says matter-of-factly, and he was really only trying to be funny, figures Tony will laugh it off—so he’s surprised when he catches what might be the tiniest of choking noises from Tony.

The man glances over his shoulder at him, bewildered.  “What?”

Peter frowns, genuinely confused.  “The age of consent?”

Tony blinks.  “Seventeen?” His face is impassive.

Peter raises a brow.  “Um, yeah? You didn’t know that?”

Tony splutters.  “Why—why would I need to know that?”

Peter is enjoying seeing Tony caught off-guard for once—maybe even, if he dare think it, nervous?  Somehow, it makes Peter feel unusually bold.

He wets his lips.  “Thought it was common knowledge, I guess.”

“Common—no.  No, uh.” Tony clears his throat.  “I thought it was eighteen, for some reason,” he mutters, turning back to the mixing bowl.

“Seriously?  You, of all people?”

Tony glances at him sharply again.  “What is that supposed to—okay, well, I get what it’s supposed to mean but, first of all, most of my playboy days were spent in California where the age of consent is, in fact, eighteen, and second of all, despite any reputation I may have once had, cradle-robbing was never my vice of choice.”

Peter shrugs disarmingly and Tony, wary but apparently pacified, goes back to mixing the batter.  Peter can’t help but feel a little disappointed at Tony’s firm denial of interest in younger partners.  Not that he expects otherwise, of course. He knows that his fantasies are just that: fantasies.

It doesn’t hurt to indulge them just a little, though, if they’re all he’s ever going to get; so Peter lets his eyes drag down Tony’s back.  The man’s muscles are tenser than they were a minute ago, clearly visible through his t-shirt. “Well, it’s seventeen,” he adds for emphasis.  “I can legally have sex with anyone I want. I mean, with consent and all, of course.”

“Of course,” Tony echoes faintly.  “Consent is… crucial, and protection, and… I’m not expected to give you this talk, am I?”

Peter chuckles.  “Don’t worry, May’s already done the honors.  Very enthusiastically. Not that I needed it,” he’s quick to add.  He reddens as he realizes the manifold possible interpretations of that claim.  “I mean, I’ve suffered the horrors of high school health class for years now, and I have… like, the internet, and stuff,” he finishes lamely.

Tony snorts.  “Don’t believe everything you see online, kid.”

“I don’t,” Peter protests, slightly affronted.  “My research methods are very thorough.”

“I don’t doubt it.”  Tony pauses. It’s hesitation—well disguised, but nevertheless, Peter knows what it is.  Then: “You are a virgin though, right, Pete?”

Peter reddens further.  The casually confident way that Tony said it—God, is it that obvious?

“Well, yeah…”  His fingers twist together nervously in his lap.  He can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Good,” says Tony quickly.  “I mean, there’s no reason to rush.”  He sounds nervous again, but Peter can’t see his face.  He’s still intent on his work at the stove. “No shame in it.  Just ’cause everyone else is doing it doesn’t mean you should be.”

“Uh, they’re not?”  Peter’s brow furrows in confusion.  “Well, I mean, some are, I guess, but I’m pretty sure a lot of my friends aren’t…”

“Oh.  Decathlon team, right,” Tony mutters.  “Well, good.” He clears his throat. “Now get out some plates and forks, we’ll have hot gooey chocolate chip pancakes ready in just a minute.”

…

Peter’s birthday is uneventful.  In a good way—Sam is away, so it’s just him and Tony, eating together, working together, talking or in companionable silence, like any other weekend.  Peter likes that, the familiarity of it, the intimacy. He feels at ease with Tony, when it’s just the two of them. No one else to worry about interacting with.  Like no one else exists.

He thinks of May, and Ned, and feels guilty.  He calls May in the afternoon, like he promised he would, and tries not to hear the falseness of her cheery voice as she asks about his big day.  Tries to pretend he doesn’t know that his aunt wishes he were home. It’s the first birthday he can remember that he hasn’t been with her. Birthdays have always been for family; parties with friends would be scheduled for another time, so the day itself was always for just him and May and Ben, and more recently, just him and May.  They would order Thai takeout and watch their favorite movies on the couch, ignoring the demands and responsibilities of work and school to spend just one evening in their own little world. Comfortable. Content.

Peter realizes with a pang of guilt that he can’t remember the last time he felt that way with May.  He wonders if she’s noticed, and immediately knows that of course, she has. She wouldn’t look at him with such sad eyes all the time otherwise.

Ned doesn’t text him.  The thought doesn’t even occur to Peter until that evening, when he knows it’s too late to expect anything.  The realization sits heavy and sick in his gut. He remembers the barrage of celebratory gifs his friend sent him last year, blowing up his phone all day long until May scolded him to put it away already.

He’s sitting on the couch after dinner when Tony gives him his present: a prototype of the newest StarkPad, complete with engineering features to help with his lab work.  Peter has a feeling not all of those will be in the version available to the public. His chest tightens as he runs his fingers over the translucent screen.

“Do you like it?”

Peter detects a note of nervousness in Tony’s voice and looks up.  To almost anyone else Tony would look entirely calm, but Peter notes the slight crease of his brow, the tension in his jaw.

“It’s perfect.”

Tony’s features relax.  An infinitesimal shift, but still significant to Peter.  His chest tightens further at the knowledge of just how much Tony cares.

Tony clears his throat, brushes something off his pants.  “I know I didn’t exactly pull out all the stops for your birthday, kid—”

“No, it’s fine!” Peter is quick to assure.  “Really, Tony. I wouldn’t change today at all.”

Tony looks at him.  He seems like he wants to say something.  His gaze is soft, fond, but as always, there’s something—

He glances away, sniffs.  “Well. Happy birthday, bud.  What do you wanna watch?”

Peter sits close to Tony as they browse through movies.  He holds the StarkPad on his lap, tracing its thin edges with his fingers, warmed by the thought that Tony held this pad, this very one, designing extra features just for him.  The code he wrote, the hours spent thinking and tinkering, all because he thought Peter would like it.

Peter leans into Tony, rests his head on his shoulder.  Tony brings an arm around him without comment. It seems that, since they’ve started sleeping under the same blanket, there are fewer barriers to physical intimacy between them.  Peter has yet to be turned away when seeking contact, and he hopes to keep it that way.

Tony watches the movie, while Peter mostly watches Tony from the corner of his eye.  He breathes in his musky, leathery smell, examines the texture gradation between the skin of his neck and the stubble on his cheeks.  It feels so good, to be close to Tony, to focus on nothing but him, to be pressed against him. Peter wants to reach out and touch, trace his jawline and his full lips.  He wants to taste his skin, hot and salty—God, what must Tony’s mouth taste like?

Peter screws his eyes shut, hot shame spreading in his chest and dampening the sharp _want_ in his gut.  He shouldn’t be thinking of Tony like that, not when the man is right there, just trying to be a good—friend?  Mentor? Trying to make sure Peter has good birthday. Unselfish.

Unlike Peter.  He knows he’s pushed Tony, that Tony never meant for them to end up this way—“this way” being _you probably shouldn’t tell anyone about this_ , or startling apart when Colonel Rhodes walks into the room, or the expression Peter sometimes catches on Tony’s face: wary.  Doubtful. Afraid.

Tony has given him so much, even against his better judgment, Peter suspects.  And yet here Peter is, wanting more. Selfish.

Just like he’s been selfish with May and Ned.  Maybe, Peter thinks, deep down—under the suit, where the Instagrammers and YouTube vloggers who celebrate Spider-Man’s exploits can’t see—maybe he’s not such a good person after all.

“You okay?”

The low voice rumbling in his ear startles Peter out of his spiraling thoughts.  Tony is looking down at him with a concerned frown.

“Y-yeah, fine,” Peter says unconvincingly.

“You’ve been sort of quiet today.”

Peter shrugs.  “I’m fine.” Then, at Tony’s dubious look, adds, “Tired, I guess.”

Tony nods, though he still has that worried wrinkle between his brows.  “Bed?”

Peter nods; he wasn’t watching the movie anyway.

It’s not that late, so he expects Tony to send him off and then return to the lab for further tinkering, but instead Tony follows him to their— _Tony’s_ —room.  Peter feels more satisfied than he probably should at that fact.

Peter’s not surprised anymore when Tony crawls under the covers next to him.  He’s not surprised when Tony drapes an arm over his chest and lets him shuffle closer.  Nor is he surprised when, despite his best efforts to drift to sleep, he feels his body reacting to the proximity, the contact.  Peter tries to ignore it, as he’s managed to more often than not since that first night when, overwhelmed by the new experience, he had to sneak off to the bathroom to find relief.

His mind, though, keeps providing him with flashes of Tony’s neck, jaw, lips.  His dark eyelashes, warm smell…

Peter shifts uncomfortably, tries to concentrate.  He can do this; not now, not now—

He nearly jumps when Tony speaks.

“You need to use the bathroom?” Tony mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

Peter freezes.  Apparently his movements were less subtle than he thought.  Heat flares in his cheeks.

“Uh, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Wasn’t asleep.”

Oh.   _Oh._  Shit, Peter could have sworn the man was sleeping, his breath was so even, heart rate so steady.

“Um.”  Peter licks his lips.  “’M fine.” His thighs clench; he wills them to relax.

Tony retracts his arm, and Peter is too distraught at the loss of the comforting weight to register Tony’s words at first: “Are you sure?”

Peter blinks, trying to clear his head.  Tony sounds more alert now. His words seem carefully chosen, significant; Peter frowns for a moment, and then the realization bowls him over like a sixteen-wheeler.

Tony knows he’s hard, and he’s asking if Peter needs to get off.  No, not asking—giving him _permission_.

Peter’s heart bangs against his ribcage as he’s flooded with mortification—and yet, inexplicably, the heat that throbs through him isn’t entirely unpleasant.  Tony knows. He _knows_.  If Peter refuses and stays, then Tony will know that Peter is aroused, right next to him.  But if Peter goes to the bathroom, Tony will know what he’s doing in there, too.

Peter’s groin throbs.  His heart threatens to climb up his throat.  Tony is still waiting for an answer.

“I—” Peter chokes out.  He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to breathe.

Tony speaks again, voice soft, but firm.  “Why don’t you go to the bathroom, Pete.”

 _Fuck_.

Tony is telling him to get himself off.

Peter draws a shaky breath.  He’s grateful for the dark, and Tony’s lack of enhanced vision—he’s sure there are tears in his eyes.  He pulls himself slowly out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom.

His hand is down his pants as soon as the door closes behind him.  He sags against the counter.

Tony knows.  He knows that Peter is touching himself, thinking about _Tony._  And he’s—okay with that?  Not angry, at least—

_Why don’t you go to the bathroom, Pete—_

Fuck, Tony—Tony’s skin, his stubble, lips, smell, heat, voice— _Why don’t you go to the bathroom—_ Peter _wants_ , wants it all, wants Tony’s hands on him, wants Tony’s large rough hands on him like _this_ , touching _here—_

With a barely stifled whimper, Peter’s reaching for the tissues and trembling through his release.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, then tosses the tissue and washes his hands.  Tony will know he’s finished, he thinks absently. He can’t summon the energy to be embarrassed by how quickly he came.

Peter looks in the mirror.  Seeing his reflection under the harsh bathroom light, he’s suddenly overcome with shame.

Is Tony disgusted by him?  By what he just did? Why wouldn’t he be?  Peter is just an inexperienced kid. A self-confessed virgin.  A high school boy with a crush, an impossible, pathetic fantasy.  Tony— _Tony fucking Stark_ —is a billionaire genius celebrity with a list of sexual exploits long enough to fill multiple issues of _Playboy_ —or maybe _Penthouse_ , that seems more fitting.  Tony’s slept with models and movie stars and anyone he’s ever wanted.  Tony’s never been into anyone remotely like Peter. Teenagers with pimples.  Boys.

For that matter, Peter’s never been into anyone like Tony.  Men. It’s all so new to him—the fact that something as simple and _manly_ as stubble can send such a thrill though him, the thought of it against his cheek, rubbing along his thighs—

Peter has to take a deep breath.  He doesn’t need to get hard again.

He’s given this a lot of thought over the past few months since his epiphany, and he knows that really, it’s not just stubble that does it for him.  It’s _Tony’s_ stubble.  It’s not large, strong hands—it’s _Tony’s_ hands.  Peter knows, because he’s tried watching gay porn.  He’s tried surreptitiously looking at other boys, other men, waiting for a stirring of something…  Nothing. It’s just Tony.

Tony, who’s waiting for him to come back to bed.  Peter wonders why Tony lets him do it. Why Peter is still allowed to be this close after trying to kiss him.  After getting off thinking of him, just on the other side of a door.

Peter takes one more deep breath and exits the bathroom, slides back into bed.  Tony is lying where he left him, as if nothing abnormal has just happened. Peter doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Tony speaks.

“Feeling better?”

It’s a neutral question, devoid of suggestion, and with just a hint of concern, as though maybe Peter had been sick instead of horny.  Peter nods, lets out his breath.

“Yeah.”  It comes out shaky.

“Good.”

Good?  What does that mean?  Peter feels like screaming.  Or crying. He just wants to understand what’s going through Tony’s head.

Tony’s hand moves, cards through Peter’s hair, once.  Peter’s breath catches.

Tony pulls his hand back.  “Goodnight, Pete.”

Peter chalks it up to sleepiness, or post-orgasmic haze, or maybe simply the rush of emotion he feels towards Tony in that moment: gratefulness that Tony still makes room for him in his life, and in his bed; desperation to keep Tony close and fear that he won’t be able to, that he’s not good enough; love, pure and simple.  Desire. Not even sexual desire, but simply the desire to be close—maybe it’s all of that that makes Peter shift over until he’s right next to Tony, and throw an arm around him, and rest his head against his broad chest.

Tony stills; the only motion is the thumping of his heart, loud in Peter’s ear.  He waits for rejection.

Instead, a hand lands in his hair, pets it gently.

“Go to sleep, Peter,” Tony whispers.

Peter closes his eyes, relishing in the solidness of Tony beneath his head, a sturdy, living pillow, the rise and fall of his chest like the rocking of a ship, and the slow, steady stroking of Tony’s fingers against his hair.  He can’t remember the last time he felt so content.

There’s a thought in Peter’s mind as he drifts towards sleep, something that’s been there for a while, but never fully acknowledged—blurry, like the slides at the eye doctor’s office before the lenses bring them into focus.  Now for the first time it comes into view in thick, sharp black lines, just before Peter slips into unconsciousness:

This relationship is so, so far from normal.

…

Of all the things Peter was dreading about his return to Queens on Sunday, finding Ned in his living room was not one he expected.  Yet here his friend sits, a timid, hopeful look on his face and an envelope in his hands.

Peter’s heart drops into his stomach.

May greets Peter with a smile, taking his backpack from him—Peter keeps enough things at the compound that he doesn’t need to haul a duffel back and forth anymore—and ushers him onto the couch before making her exit to her bedroom.

Ned looks sheepish, and for a bizarre moment Peter wonders if he’s been dropped into an alternate reality—it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s happened to him—where Ned is the bad friend who needs to apologize, and not the other way around.

The feeling only intensifies when Ned speaks.  “Hey, dude. I, uh, owe you an apology.”

Peter simply stares.  Apparently Ned interprets that as a stern look rather than one of bewilderment, because his expression morphs into desperation as he rushes out, “I’m so sorry I didn’t text you on your birthday.  I wasn’t, like, trying to freeze you out, man. Or ghost you. Like, friend-ghosting, y’know? When people who were friends just stop texting, and it’s like, suddenly they’re not talking anymore, and you think maybe they had some big argument but no, they just stopped texting because one was sorta pissed off at the other over something really stupid, and like, the other person might not even know what it was in the first place but now they’re not texting so they can’t just like, start again—”

“Okay, dude, breathe,” Peter butts in.  Sometimes Ned needs a reminder.

Ned takes a gulp of air, seemingly without registering what he’s doing, and simply continues—“and what I’m saying is, I don’t want that to happen to us, Peter.  I know I’ve been sort of a dick recently, but like, I know your Avengers stuff is important and obviously you have to put that before having a stupid birthday party or whatever and I just want you to know I’m not mad, and I wanted to text you but every time I tried to write something it just came out sounding sort of passive-aggressive, y’know?  So I figured it would be better to say it in person—”

“Woah, woah, Ned.  Okay, man, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Ned blurts out, as if he has to squeeze one last apology in before Peter cuts him off completely.

“Okay.”  Peter blinks, trying to process the word vomit that’s just been sprayed all over him—and then trying to scrub his mind of the vivid image it’s just conjured.

“Um.  Ned,” he starts, bracing himself.  “You really don’t have to apologize, though.  I—I’ve been the dick—”

“No, dude, you’ve been stressed!  C’mon, I can tell. I know you, Peter.  You’ve been hella stressed ever since you joined the Avengers—which, like, I still can’t even believe I’m saying that sentence because it is so _fucking_ cool that my best friend is actually a real live Avenger—but the point is, I can’t even imagine the pressure you’re under, like, being responsible for protecting the whole freakin’ world?  Planning for the next alien invasion—” Peter tenses—“or whatever? And I’ve been really insensitive to that, but I want you to know I’m here for you, man. Okay?”

Peter looks at Ned’s round, earnest eyes.  So full of good intentions. Full of concern.  Needing absolution, reassurance. Because Ned is so certain that this is his fault; it doesn’t even cross his mind that Peter has been the shitty friend.

 _You don’t get it_ , he wants to say.   _It’s not you, it’s me._  Maybe, if he were a better person, he would say that.  He would lay it out for Ned, take the burden of responsibility from him.  If he were a better person, Ned wouldn’t be blaming himself for all this in the first place.

But Peter feels exhausted already.  He doesn’t have the energy to convince Ned that he’s not the one who’s being insensitive.  He doesn’t have the energy to explain that the Avengers don’t really need him at the compound every weekend, that the world’s not constantly in peril.  He can’t face his friend and tell him that he simply chooses to go, chooses to spend his time with a man three times his age rather than with his lifelong best friend because it’s the only way he feels grounded and sane, can’t tell him it’s because last year he went to another fucking planet where he fucking _died_ in that man’s arms—

Peter’s head hurts.  He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh.  “It’s okay, Ned. I forgive you.”

The words taste sour on his tongue.  But they do the trick; Ned looks instantly relieved.

It only makes Peter feel ill.

His chest aches.  He wants to tell Ned so many things, share everything with him like he did when they were younger; but Ned is already chatting animatedly about something funny that MJ said at decathlon practice the other day—one Peter missed—and Peter can’t bring himself to interrupt that uncomplicated happiness.  If it’s that simple for Ned, Peter will let him have it. Apparently, whatever coolness had settled over their relationship is already forgotten in Ned’s mind. Because of course it is; Ned is his brother, and no misunderstanding has ever has ever kept them apart for long. Ned has no reason to treat this any differently.

Peter knows this isn’t just some misunderstanding, though.  This is something inside of him that’s changed, and it scares him.  It scares him that this could be the thing that ends them, and it will be all his fault.

Ned gives him the envelope.  It’s Peter’s birthday gift: tickets to a Fleet Foxes concert at the end of the school year.  Peter smiles and thanks him; Ned seems genuinely excited and Peter tries to mirror his enthusiasm.  He remembers how they used to fanboy over the band together, splitting a pair of ear buds to listen to songs together at lunch or on the bus; Peter doesn’t think he’s listened to them once in the past year, though.  Hasn’t given much thought to any of the music he once liked, for that matter.

Ned drops a hopeful hint about watching a movie.  Peter can’t fake the enthusiasm for that, though; he’s just so tired.  He makes an excuse about the long weekend and the homework he hasn’t finished yet.  Ned nods with a hasty, too-understanding “oh yeah, of course, man,” and Peter feels even more like shit.  He knows Ned is disappointed as they say their goodbyes, and worse, that his friend is hiding it for his sake.

Still, he can’t help but feel relieved when Ned is gone.  He goes to his room. He really does have homework to finish, but mostly he just wants to be alone.

Not a minute later, though, there’s a knock on his door.  May appears with a sweet smile to inquire how it went with Ned.  Peter can tell she’s treading lightly; he tries not to care. He tells her about the concert tickets, and she seems pleased for him.

Then she says: “So, for your birthday dinner…” and asks if he wants to go out for Thai.  Or try the new Indian buffet that’s opened nearby. Or maybe something different, like sushi or Ethiopian?  May is trying to cover all her bases, apparently.

The only problem is, Peter really, really doesn’t want to go out.  Talking to Ned has drained him, and it’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time with May, it’s just that he knows he’d be good for nothing if they went out.  He doesn’t want to subject her to a dinner with nothing but one-sided conversation.

He uses the homework excuse again.

“Oh, of course.”  May smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes.  “I should have known you wouldn’t be able to get much done while you were upstate.  Mr. Stark keeps you busy, huh?” she says lightly.

Peter keeps his face carefully blank.  “Yeah, yeah he does.” He watches May, tries to gauge how hurt she is.  She’s still smiling, but there’s a look in her eye that’s too thoughtful, too concerned for his liking.

“Um,” he starts again.  “Maybe later this week? I’m sorry May, I really wish I could—”

“No, no, don’t be silly, your work comes first,” she assures him, her smile broadening as she walks to where he sits at his desk.  She smoothes back his hair and leans down to kiss his forehead. “That’s my boy. Avenger, protector of Queens, and A plus student to boot.”

The guilt in Peter’s gut isn’t ready to subside, though.  “Are you sure? I mean, we didn’t get to do anything yesterday—” he tries, only to be cut off again.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, quit worrying about me.”  She grabs his nose teasingly and gives him a little shake that Peter faux-grudgingly puts up with.  “Your uncle would have words for me if he knew I was trying to get you to shirk schoolwork. Now back to it.  Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll fix you something.”

With that she leaves Peter alone.

It’s a couple of hours until Peter has enough of an appetite to consider dinner.  He ventures out of his room and hears the sink running in the kitchen. He follows the sound and finds May washing dishes, her back turned to him.

He’s just opened his mouth to speak when he notices the tremble in her shoulders.  He watches May rinse a pan and place it on the drying rack with jerky movements. Her arm presses across her middle as a small sob escapes her lips.

Peter’s insides crumple like an aluminum can.  For a moment he can’t move, can only watch May hang her head as she attempts to control her breathing.  He forces himself to step forward.

“May?” he asks, but his voice sticks in his throat and it comes out breathy, inaudible over the running water.  He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“May?”  This time May jumps slightly, scrubbing at her eyes hastily before glancing over her shoulder at him with a watery smile.

“Peter, baby, didn’t hear you come in.”  She turns quickly back to her work and clears her throat.  “Just getting these dishes out of the way,” she adds unnecessarily.

Peter approaches her, touches her lightly on the shoulder.  She looks over, surprised.

Peter can tell that May is still holding back tears.  He doesn’t often see his aunt cry, but once she starts, it’s hard to dam up the waterworks.  Why did he have to be so fucking selfish? He should have known how much a dinner out would mean to May after missing his birthday.  No, he did know—but once again, he’d put himself first.

She shuts off the faucet.  “You hungry?” she tries.

Peter shifts his weight guiltily.  “Um. It’s okay, we can go out, May.”  Anything to make her feel better.

May inhales sharply, looks between his eyes.  “Oh, honey, that’s not—I’m not upset about that.”

Peter’s brow furrows.  “Aren’t you? I mean, I was just feeling tired earlier, but really, I got a lot done; I think I’m okay to go out now—”

“Peter, don’t worry about it,” she says firmly.  Her fingers brush at a wet trail on her cheek. “I’m sorry about this.  It wasn’t—it’s not your fault,” she finishes with a tight smile.

Peter’s not so sure.  “Then, what?”

May is still looking at him with damp eyes.  Her nostrils are flared the way they always are when she cries.

“I—”  She cuts off, bites her lip.  Presses a hand over her mouth, her brows creased.  She looks away. “Oh, Peter, I just…” she says softly, dropping her hand.  She looks back at him, and her expression is sorrowful. Peter is suffocating with dread.

“I worry about you, that’s all,” she whispers.

Peter blinks.  “What?” he rasps.  His throat is tight.

He knows May worries about him; it’s been her first and foremost job since learning about his double identity—or maybe even since Ben died.  But Peter is fairly certain that May doesn’t usually cry over him while washing the dishes. Even the thought of it makes his gut lurch.

May is pressing her lips together, staring somewhere over his shoulder and clearly trying to keep it together.  He wet hands are balled into fists on her hips. She shakes her head, just slightly, as if to herself.

“I.  Um.” She looks at him, swallows.  “It’s just. You’re so—so busy, now.  With all the Avengers stuff, and I thought that—” her lips trembles as she draws in breath—“that we could handle it, you just going on the weekends—that you would still have a life—”  The pitch of her voice is rising the way it does when she gets panicky. Peter presses his nails into his palms as he listens.

“But Peter, it’s as if even when you’re here, you’re not really _here_ and you even go over to that man’s home on weekdays—”

“‘That man’ has a name,” Peter interjects with a forcefulness that surprises him.  As concerned as he is for his aunt right now, he won’t let her put this on Tony. He’s sick of Tony taking the blame for his own actions.  Tony doesn’t make Peter’s decisions for him.

May huffs out a tired breath.  “Yes, well, he sees more of you than I do, these days—and I’m not complaining about that, I know you’re at that age when you don’t want to be spending all your time with your aunt—”

“May, that’s not true—”

“—but it’s even Ned, Peter.  Ned. Your best friend. Do you know how upset he’s been?  I talked with him before you got here—”

_Don’t I know it all too well._

“—and it’s like you don’t even want to see him!”

“That’s not true,” Peter tries again, more feebly.

May sighs, and Peter can tell she’s at the end of her rope.  Tears are glistening in her eyes; they look even glossier behind the lenses of her glasses.  “Then what, Peter? Please. Please explain to me what the truth is, because I’m trying—” She cuts herself off again, clenches her hand and closes her eyes.  She takes a deep breath and lets it out slow before trying again. “I am trying to understand what is going on with you Peter, but… I’ve got nothing.”

She looks into his eyes, searching, pleading.  Peter can only stare back. He can’t offer an answer.  He’s empty.

“I…” he begins, but he has nothing to follow up with.  “I’m just… tired.”

May bites her lips, looks down at the floor, nods.  Her face scrunches and she brings a hand up to cover it.  She reaches for the kitchen table and sits heavily in a chair, head still bowed.

Peter wants to cry at the sight, but he can’t.  He feels it in his throat and sinuses, but the tears won’t come.

May takes a moment: a few deep breaths, the sort of breathing people do to regulate anxiety or excruciating pain.  She lowers her hands down to the tabletop, fingers spread against the wood grain like she’s bracing herself. She swallows.

“Tired.  You’ve been tired ever since I let you join the Avengers.”

Peter doesn’t like the way she phrases that, making herself a part of the equation.

“I thought—thought I could protect you,” she continues, voice thick.  “With agreements and compromises and—” Another deep breath. “I should have known, once I signed that document I wouldn’t be able to protect you anymore.”  She shakes her head. “Sometimes I think—” Her voice is pitched and her breaths come in ragged little gasps. “I-if Ben were still alive, he w-wouldn’t have signed…”  A sob bubbles up her throat, and finally she breaks down and cries in earnest.

Peter’s torn to shreds inside, like there’s a red-hot iron poking around his guts.  Feels like he’s going to be sick. He sits gingerly on the seat next to her. He needs to make this better.

“May, please…” he croaks.  He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.  He doesn’t know what to say. He casts about desperately for the right words.

Before he can find them, May is gulping in air and wiping at her cheeks again.  “Sorry, Peter, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she hiccups. It doesn’t make Peter feel any better.

May sniffs, removes her glasses to dab at her eyes.  “Ugh, I’m—sorry, Peter, this isn’t… how I meant for this conversation to go.”  She sounds stuffy.

“It’s okay,” Peter says faintly, because it’s the only thing he can think of.  Even though it’s not; it’s really not, and it’s his fault.

May collects herself.  It hurts Peter how quickly she can put a mask of calm control over everything.  It reminds him, with a pang, of how much pain May has experienced—and had to hide—in her life.  He never meant to be a source of that pain.

“Um.  Maria Hill told me…” she begins cautiously, “that there’s a counselor.  Someone trained, you can talk to?” She looks at the tabletop as she speaks.

Peter blinks in confusion.  “Wait, Sam? My combat instructor?”  He remembers vaguely something about Sam’s counseling work for the V. A.

May nods.  “Sam Wilson, that’s the one.  Will you—will you talk to him, Peter?  Please?” Finally she looks up at him. Her eyelashes are clumped together with tears.  “I know that… there are things you can’t tell me. That’s okay, Peter.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.  “You don’t have to tell me everything. But please, promise me you’ll talk to Sam.”

Peter nods dumbly.  In this moment, he would agree to anything.  He finds his voice. “I promise, May.”

She reaches for his hand and clutches it in her own, giving him a watery, sad smile.  Her thumb brushes the back of his hand. She pulls it up and presses a kiss to it.

“Thank you.  My sweet boy.”

Peter has to look away.

…

Later that night, he’s still thinking of those words as he lies on his bed, mask pulled over his head to make everything a little darker, a little calmer, a little _less_.

When he was little, he used to pull his covers over his head and pretend the world on the other side of the blankets didn’t exist.  Peter doesn’t remember much about his parents’ deaths or his first days with May and Ben, but he does remember that: the scent of May’s fabric softener, the light filtering through his blue Captain America sheets, the moist puffs of his own breath dampening the spot over his mouth.

Retreating under the mask is essentially the same; it simply allows Peter the illusion of being less childish.

“Good evening, Peter,” a familiar voice speaks in his ear.  Karen’s voice is low, less peppy than usual. Or maybe it’s just Peter’s imagination.

“Hey, Karen,” he sighs.

“You seem to be experiencing some emotional distress,” she says softly.  “How can I help?”

Peter swallows.  “I don’t know if you can.”

A pause.  “Do you want to tell me about what’s bothering you?”

Peter sighs again.  “I just… feel like I’ve been messing up a lot recently, and making people I care about unhappy…  But, um, for some reason, they’re all apologizing to me, and they keep saying I’m good, or I’m sweet, or whatever and I just—it makes it even worse, you know?”  Peter blinks, breathes. It’s a relief to say it out loud; he’s always able to talk to Karen, somehow. She never judges him, never treats him differently.

Or maybe it’s just that Peter can’t hurt her.

“Have you told them how you feel?”

“No, I—”  Peter groans.  “I can’t. They won’t listen.”

“What about Mr. Stark?” Karen suggests gently.  “Can you talk to him?”

“He’s not here.  I can’t just call him up this late at night—I mean, he’s probably awake, but, I just saw him this morning anyway—”

“You can always call Mr. Stark, Peter.”

Peter narrows his eyes suspiciously.  “Did he just program you to say that?”

“In a sense, Mr. Stark programmed everything I say.  However, I am also capable of learning and improvisation, so it would be more accurate to say that Mr. Stark programmed me with the option to say that, when and if I deemed it necessary and appropriate—”

“Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to offend your sense of… um, free will, or whatever?  Oh, sorry, I mean, I’m not trying to be insensitive, I’m just not sure what you’d call it—”

“It’s quite alright, Peter.  I’m not offended. In fact, you would be incapable of offending me.”

“Right.”  Right. Peter’s chest unclenches.

“Would you like me to call Mr. Stark for you?”

“Um.”  Peter’s mind flashes to the night before.  Warm in bed next to Tony.

_Why don’t you go to the bathroom, Pete._

Peter flushes.

“Are you anxious, Peter?”

“Wh—what?”

“I noticed a sudden spike in your heart rate.”

“O-oh!  No, no, it’s fine, Karen.  Ignore that.”

“Alright.”

Peter wavers.  Would Tony mind it if he called?  He thinks back to this time last night, when his head was cushioned on Tony’s chest and Tony’s hand was in his hair.  If he closes his eyes, he can almost still feel it, petting his head, can almost still smell his scent, feel his warmth…

“Yeah, call Tony, Karen,” he murmurs, before he can really think it through.  He just wants to hear the man’s voice.

Actually hearing it, though, is a wake-up call.

_“Kid?  Everything alright?”_

Carefully masked panic.  Peter can hear it even over the remote connection.  Shit. What is he supposed to say? What excuse does he have?

“Uh.  Yeah, fine.  Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you—”

_“Hey, uh-uh, cut that out.  What is it.”_

“Um.”

_“Spit it out.”_

“Look, it’s really no big deal, I’ll talk to you—uh, what, Tuesday?  What did we say, Wednesday—?”

_“Peter.”_

Peter sighs.  Bites his lip.  Mumbles. “Just…”

Tony waits.  Peter feels gratitude swell up in his chest.  Tony always knows what he needs, even when it’s just silence.

“Didn’t have a great end to my birthday weekend.”

 _“Hm.  Something tells me you don’t mean that in the ‘ended up in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere in the back of a stranger’s Ferrari with my clothes on backwards and all my credit cards missing but also 500 dollars cash stuck down my pants’ sort of way.”_  There’s just a ghost of a chuckle in Tony’s voice as he says it.

Peter manages a snort.  “No, definitely not—wait, did that happen to you—?”

_“Story for another time, Parker.  Your turn to tell me your tale of woe.  Or, y’know, don’t. Whatever you’re feeling.”_

Peter has already forgotten about justifying his late-night call.  “Not much to tell, really. Just trying and failing to comfort a crying aunt.  Sort of puts on a downer on my day, y’know?” he says flatly.

A pause.   _“I’m sorry, Peter.”_

A knot tightens in Peter’s chest.  “Not you, too,” he mutters.

_“What?”_

Peter makes a noise of frustration.  He’s aggravated with himself, though, not Tony.

“Just, everyone’s been apologizing to me lately, and I don’t even get what for.  I mean, I’m the one who should be apologizing—”

_“Kid, you’ve got nothing to apologize for—”_

“You don’t get it!”  Peter feels tears pricking at his eyes and hates himself for it.  He’s glad they’re not on video.

 _“Try me,”_ says Tony calmly.

Peter huffs out a breath.  “Well, for starters, Ned came by to apologize, as if I haven’t been the one shutting him out and making excuses not to hang out—he even bought me Fleet Foxes tickets!  Do you know how much those must have cost? And I know he must have used his own money—like, he must have been saving since Christmas. This whole time, he’s been planning this nice thing for me and I’ve been a complete asshole!  And then May—” Peter has to swallow down a lump in his throat just at her name—“May feels like I’ve been ignoring her, because I have been, because I can’t stand to see her upset and she’s always upset these days, I can tell even though she tries to hide it, but avoiding her just makes her more upset so it’s just—”  Peter can feel his breath quickening, pressure rising as everything he’s fought so hard to keep the lid on pushes back with a vengeance. He struggles to keep his voice under control.

“And you—now you’re saying _you’re_ sorry but it’s not your fault, none of this is, even though May probably thinks so, it’s not, okay, it’s my decision to spend time with you, but, you probably don’t even—fuck, I mean, now I’m calling you in the middle of the night and—”

 _“Hey, hey_ hey _!”_

It takes a moment before Peter hears Tony trying to get his attention.  He feels hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, wicked up by the fabric of his mask before they can trickle into his ears.

_“Peter.”_

Tony’s warm voice is grounding.  Peter exhales, trying to control it, go slow.

_“Pete, you good?”_

Peter takes a moment before he trusts his voice enough to make a noise in assent.

 _“Okay.”_  Tony sighs, deeply.   _“Look.  Pete, I feel I oughtta say something… something I should have said a long time ago.”_

Peter steels himself.  He doesn’t like the sound of that.  The last thing he wanted was to make Tony feel responsible; he shouldn’t have let his emotions get the better of him.

 _“I don’t want you to feel—_ ever _, you got that?—like you’ve let me down.  Okay?”_

A confused noise bubbles up Peter’s throat.  “What?”

Another sigh from Tony.   _“Okay, let me back up.  It’s no secret that I had a, ah, complex relationship with my father, right?  And, y’know, when I met you… I, um. I thought that if I could just, be a better father to you, than he was to me—”_

Peter frowns.  Father to him? That’s the last thing he wants Tony to be thinking; but before he can get a word in, Tony’s going on:

_“—but, y’know, that was stupid, I see that now, I mean, I’m not your father, Peter, and, and—when I said that I wanted you to be better than me?  I didn’t have a right to say that. That was my baggage, I didn’t have a right to put that on you. And I’m sorry.”_

Peter exhales in frustration, trying to process the barrage of words.  It’s good that Tony doesn’t think of himself as his father, but does this mean that Tony _is_ disappointed in him?  Has he not lived up to the man’s expectations?

But Tony is apparently in a nervous rambling mood, because he’s filling the silence again: _“I was projecting, you know?  Didn’t even realize that I was doing_ exactly _what my dad would have done, just maybe going about it a little different—all this ‘you hold the key to the future’ crap, I mean, no one should have that shoved onto them, least of all by someone who only just discovered them on YouTube and gave them a fancy super suit—as if you owed me anything, when I’m the one who came to_ you _for help—”_

“Tony—”

_“I just, I shouldn’t have assumed I could be some sort of father figure to you, make demands, shouldn’t have assumed you needed or wanted that—”_

“Tony.”

Finally , Tony stops.  Peter wishes he could see him, though it occurs to him that now Tony’s probably glad they’re not on video.  Peter wonders if he ever would have heard any of this if he hadn’t called, if Tony never had the chance to say it without being face to face.

Peter’s brow furrows in sympathy.  He draws a deep breath.

“I didn’t.  See you as a father figure.”  Peter pauses, considers. Maybe, at some point, he did; but that time’s long past.  “At least, I don’t, now. It’s okay, though. What I really wanted—” _what I really want_ , he thinks, but that feels like too much to admit—“was just to be… your equal…”

He hears Tony inhale.   _“You’re not my equal, Pete.”_

Panic clenches Peter’s throat.  “N-no, I know—”

_“You’re my better.”_

Peter doesn’t breathe for a moment.

_“And I don’t mean that in a ‘my son, you must carry the burden that was too great for me’ way—No.  I just mean, you already are. Simple as that. Without trying. You’re a better hero than I could ever be, Peter.  A better person.”_

Peter feels tears pricking at his eyes again.  He blinks, holds them in. He knows he should be protesting, expects the self-loathing to come back full-force any second—but Tony sounds so _genuine_.  And if Tony believes it, really truly believes, then maybe… just maybe, Peter can, too.

_“Do you trust me, Pete?”_

It takes Peter a moment to find his voice.  He struggles not to let it wobble as he breathes, “What?”

_“Do you trust me?”_

“Of course,” he whispers.

_“Then, trust me when I tell you, you’re doing good.  You’re good, Pete. You’re alright.”_

Peter lets out a long, slow, breath.  He feels the words wash over him, wrap around him like a blanket.

_You’re alright._

_You’re alright, kid…_

Peter tenses.

Orange light.  Burnt metal. Tony’s firm chest.   _You’re alright, kid._  Every molecule in his body tearing apart, trying desperately to knit itself back together—

_“Peter?  Pete? You there?”_

“You ever think about Titan?”

The question is out before he has time to process it.  He doesn’t even feel like he said the words himself; it was some other Peter.

Dead silence.  Not even a breath.

Then: _“Yeah.”_

Peter swallows.  “Me too.”

For a few moments, they simply breathe together.

“You dream about it?”

_“Yeah.”_

“Sometimes, it feels like it was a dream.”

No response.  But Peter feels compelled to keep speaking.

“I mean, how do I know it’s not?  As far as the rest of the world knows, it never happened.  Crazy, right? But then, sometimes I think maybe I’m crazy, because I remember something no one else does.  Something no one else would even think was possible. Well, except you.”

Still nothing.  Peter wets his lips.

“Just, how is that sanity?  I mean, thinking something is real that no one else does… that’s gotta be some sort of definition of insanity, right?  And I know, S.H.I.E.L.D. got the real story and all, but… No one at school knows. Ned doesn’t know. Not even May knows.”

He hears Tony breathe as if he’s about to speak, but he stops himself.  After a moment, he sighs, _“I don’t know what to say.”_  He sounds pained.

Peter shrugs.  “It’s okay. I just wanted to tell you.”

Tony doesn’t speak: a silent understanding.  Peter feels like Tony is with him, like he could almost reach out and touch him.

“Where are you?”  Peter’s not sure what spurs the question.

 _“On my couch.”_  Tony doesn’t ask why.

“The Ceccotti?”

_“That’s my only couch, Parker.”_

Peter grins.  “Thought you might be in your workshop.”

_“I was, earlier.  Fixing up a car. Sort of a passion project.  I’ll show her to you next time you’re over.”_

“I’d like that.”

Peter listens to Tony breathe.  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

_“Couldn’t sleep.”_

Peter hums, closes his eyes.  Reaches his hand out on the bed: empty.

“Wish you were here,” he whispers.

Tony’s breath sounds loud.  He inhales, hesitates— _“I should go, Pete.”_

Peter’s eyes fly open.  “Wait, I’m sorry—” What is he apologizing for?

_“No, it’s fine, it’s nothing; you’re right, I should be in bed.”_

“Then, go to bed.”

Tony clears his throat.   _“Okay.  …I should hang up.”_

“You don’t have to,” Peter rushes out.  He doesn’t want to say goodbye, doesn’t want to let go of Tony just yet…  “Can we video chat?”

A long pause.

_“Only if you take off your mask.”_

“Wait, how did you know I’m wearing—?”

_“Muffles your voice, just a little.”_

“Oh.  Uh, sure.  Karen, transfer the call to my phone?”

“Of course, Peter,” she responds, chipper.

Peter tugs off his mask and picks up his phone from his bedside table, holds it in his hand resting on the pillow next to his head.

Tony’s face appears on the screen.  The warm rush of familiarity Peter feels at the sight is so strong it almost unnerves him.  He recognizes every inch of that face; the creases around Tony’s eyes and mouth that seem to deepen as the day wears on, the hairs that have escaped a once-perfect coif where Tony has run his fingers through it, probably while staring down some engineering problem or another.  The bruises of sleeplessness under still soft, fond eyes.

Peter doesn’t even realize he’s grinning until he speaks.  “Hey.”

 _“Hey.”_  Tony returns the smile.   _“This is much better.  Wouldn’t be fair if you could see my face but not the other way around, huh?”_

“Guess not.”  Peter simply watches him for a moment; Tony appears to be moving, though Peter can’t make out anything in the background.  “You going to bed?”

 _“I am indeed.”_  In proof, Tony flips his phone around to show him the bed, bouncing nearer with each step.  There’s a jostling, then Tony flips the camera back towards his face. _“See?  All tucked in.”_

“Good.”  Peter knows he should hang up, but he doesn’t want to.  He wants to bask in the sight of Tony’s face, right in front of him.  “Comfy?”

 _“Yup.”_  Tony’s eyes are in shadow; Peter can’t see them, but he feels them sweep over him, turn pensive.   _“Peter…”_

“Yeah?” Peter asks, and when did his voice get so breathy?

Tony shifts, ever so slightly.  His eyes catch a light; Peter imagines it’s the moon shining in through Tony’s wall of glass.

There’s something in his gaze that Peter still can’t grasp, something he longs to understand.  Something almost uncanny…

Tony clears his throat roughly.   _“Get some sleep, kid.”_

Peter feels hollowed out.  Or transparent. He wants Tony’s arms around him, to make him feel real and whole again.

But the Tony on his phone screen is just a collection of pixels.  He has to wait to feel the real thing again.

“Okay.”

_“Good night.”_

“Good night.”

Peter hangs up.  He closes his eyes and tries his best to follow Tony’s advice and get some sleep.

On the insides of his eyelids, though, is still the image of Tony’s face, eyes glinting in the dark.  In the moment it takes to slip from lucidity to dreaming, Peter has the strong impression that he is looking into a mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope this chapter doesn’t seem too much like filler; I felt Peter wasn’t getting enough “screen-time” (page-time?) and wanted to remedy that with this chapter. It got a bit longer than I expected though, so I had to chop it in half, with most of the big developments I had planned landing in the back half. So, I promise, they are coming! Things will be heating up, stakes will be raised! What I can’t promise is when that next chapter will be out, though. Grad school is stretching my time thin, and I’m even busier this semester than last, so I’m not counting on having much time to write fic during the semester. Who knows, anything’s possible if I hit a little lull; but, I wouldn’t count on an update till after semester’s end, when I should have a bit of a break! I really want to see this story through to the end, so I’ll do what I can! Thank you all for your ongoing support; it means so much to me. Your comments are what make this worth the while. Even if I don’t always have time to respond, know that I read and reread and cherish your comments!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a miracle! I found the time (read: ignored my homework for a weekend) to write another chapter! This is actually only about half of what I had planned to post, but I figured I’d opt for a speedier rather than lengthier update. It’s still a respectable chapter length, but in any case I do very much hope that the content makes up for the (relative) brevity, and the long wait. I’ve been so excited to share this one with you all!

Tony feels like he's on a train with no brakes. He can't see the destination the tracks are leading him to; he only knows that he's hurtling towards it at a hundred miles per hour and bound to crash.

Only, that's not quite true. There's an emergency brake. There always is. He could pull it. He could stop the train, and yet… he knows he's only on this train in the first place because he wants to be—and he really needs to stop it with the extended metaphors before they get too out of hand. The train is just another distraction. Another excuse, not to look at his situation too closely.

He can't stop thinking about Peter. That's nothing new, really; the kid's been on his mind more often than not, ever since… But it's different now.  _What_  he thinks about Peter is different. It's not just wondering where he is, worrying for his safety—it's the memory of Peter's solidity and warmth in his arms at night, the softness of his hair, the reassuring steadiness of his breaths; the impatience to touch him again, feel Peter's realness with his own two hands, hold him close. The need.

He feels it most keenly when he awakes in his own bed, alone, terrified for the few seconds it takes to realize where he is—on Earth, not Titan, not Titan—and then… hollow. He knows that somewhere in Queens, over the river that glistens like a snake under the city lights outside his bedroom window, Peter is safe and sound. But Tony wants him  _here_. To make sure. To ward off the dreams; they've been getting worse.

Tony watches the days tick by on the calendar and tries to suppress the knowledge that one year ago, he and Pepper were discussing wedding plans. Happy was, despite his complaints, happy as he could only be when up to his eyeballs in responsibilities. New Yorkers were busy being New Yorkers, Bruce and Thor were in another star system, and somewhere in the world Steve Rogers and co. were still breathing. In short, the world was in balance. Unaware of the fast-approaching disaster.

Nearly a year since Thanos arrived.

Tony has always hated anniversaries. With Pepper, they meant pressure to get everything perfect, put the brakes on whatever project he was working on or risk her wrath. It's not that Tony didn't like showing Pepper his appreciation for her; it's just that he'd rather do it in the everyday, little things than with grand gestures on Valentine's Day or anniversaries. He learned his lesson with the rabbit.

This, though. This is a particularly dreaded sort of anniversary. The kind he has to force himself not to think about. Like the date of his parents' deaths had long been, and after that the day of the explosion in Afghanistan, and more recently Siberia and Steve.

Somehow, this is so much worse. The day the world ended, and no one to mourn it. No, they want a victory celebration—a celebration of New York City's resilience at withstanding not one but two alien invasions, with a delegation from Wakanda in attendance as a show of solidarity. The mayor has invited Tony to speak.

If only they knew, Tony thinks. No one but him to remember how it felt to hold a loved one as they turned to dust…

He dreams often of the day they defeated Thanos. When they turned back time. Only now, it ends up like the vision Wanda put in his head all those years ago, each of his teammates—his friends—dead on the ground, and Steve— _you could have saved us_ —but he can't linger, he has something to do, something important—Peter. Peter should be back. Because they did it, they won, any minute now Peter will be running into his arms—

Nothing. He can't find Peter. All around him, people are coming back into being, not even knowing they were gone, but Peter isn't one of them. It didn't work. Peter didn't come back—

Tony wakes, and for two dread moments his whole body is cold with the thought,  _where's Peter_ —until he remembers. He imagines Peter's head on his chest, safe, safe,  _safe safe safe_...

Tony's fingers graze over his reactor scar, and he pictures Peter's fingers, probing, soothing. If it's a strange thing to think about, he can't tell any more. Or he doesn't care. He recalls the time he let Peter touch him like that, feel the scars on his torso. Even though he knows he shouldn't have, he relishes in the memory of Peter's tenderness, longs to feel it again—is that so wrong?

_You can't tell the difference between hurting and helping when it comes to that kid._

His hand falls away, guilt souring his stomach.

Tony had believed, once upon a time, that Peter was his saving grace. His redemption. If he could just be a good mentor, a better father than his own had been—it's laughable to think, now. Or it would be, if it weren't so fucked.

What are they, at this point, anyway? Sharing a bed and embraces that leap over any lines of normal, acceptable, respectable—but still, it's not  _like that_. Tony doesn't want… what Peter wants. He doesn't want anything from the kid, in fact;  _nothing he can't give back._

_What do you want, Tony?_

Tony thinks of Peter growing aroused as he lies next to him. It's happened more than once; probably more times than Tony's even aware of.  _Why don't you go to the bathroom, Pete._  They both knew. It wasn't any secret. And Tony knows that he should probably stop, that that crosses one line too many, but… he doesn't want to.

It has nothing to do with how he's affected by the image of Peter getting off to the thought of him—nothing at all. That's just—an involuntary reaction. It's not like Tony  _wants_ to think about that. But it's a little flattering, isn't it? Although any other adult would be horrified, repulsed, wouldn't they; but how can Tony be repulsed by Peter? How could he stop, even knowing how he affects the kid? Wouldn't anyone want to touch him, hold him close, feel the reassurance of his breath against their cheek…

_No, Tony, they wouldn't. Not a responsible adult._

That voice sounds like Rhodey. Or Sam Wilson. Or Maria. God, now they're all in his head.

Tony does what he does best: ignore the problem. It's more difficult now that he doesn't have the alcohol to help, but with a little sweat and determination anything's possible. He throws himself into any project he can think up—anything not to sleep. Not to dream. Not to think of Peter, anything to drag himself out of the whirlpool—or tar pit, yeah, that's better—of his thoughts, and goddammit he can't shake the metaphors until he's elbows-deep in an engine, covered in grease and running on nothing but caffeine.

He brings Dum-E back to his personal workshop from upstate. Definitely not for company, he tells himself; just to help keep the place in order. He finishes the car he's been working on, then disassembles it again and starts over. He spends night after night tinkering, the way that used to drive Pepper crazy. Only now, there's no one to force him to stop.

…

Sam Wilson has kind eyes. Peter realizes this for the first time as they sit side by side on a bench overlooking the grounds. The weather is getting warmer; the sun has come out for long enough to make sitting outside pleasant. It's tranquil; no S.H.I.E.L.D. agents or cadets doing laps or training exercises. Just a single landscaper making his rounds in the distance.

This is the spot Sam chose for their first session. Peter's grateful that it's not an office with a reclining couch; out here, he can feel like he's just having a conversation. He doesn't even have to look at Sam, or feel his eyes boring into him, the way he used to feel in therapy as a kid. Like the slide under a microscope, forced to yield up its secrets.

Something in Sam's voice makes Peter look up, though, and that's when he sees what he's never glimpsed under the man's casual and cool persona. The kindness. The  _understanding_.

Peter waits expectantly. He's fulfilled his promise to Aunt May, tried his best to share how he's been feeling, coping—with a few details left out, of course, but still, he's told as much of the truth as he can. Now, in spite of the look in those eyes, Peter feels exposed. His stomach twists with the dread of Sam picking apart his story, asking probing questions—

Instead, Sam glances away; nods, almost to himself.

"I ever tell you about Riley?"

Peter frowns. "Who's Riley?"

"He was my wingman. In Afghanistan."

 _Was_. Peter notes the word, wonders what the past tense means here.

"Countless missions, he was at my side. Just me and Riley up there in the sky. We were the special EXO-7 Falcon unit. First and only ones to fly the things." Sam pauses. "One night, on a rescue op, everything was going real smooth, all according to plan. Then, out of nowhere, an RPG shoots Riley right out of the sky. Just like that. It all happened in less than two seconds. One moment, he was there, the next he wasn't."

Peter realizes he's holding his breath and lets it out slow. Sam rubs his chin, eyes on the ground.

"I was in a real bad way after that. I told myself, Riley's gone. He's the only one who understood, who I shared those experiences with. Now there's no one. Came back home, saw old friends, family. But I kept thinking to myself, I'm so goddamn alone. These people don't get it. They don't get what it's like to fly like that, the freedom, the thrill. And they sure as hell don't get what it's like to know that any moment could be your last. They haven't felt the heat of an IED going off. They haven't seen what high-caliber bullets will do to a person's body. They haven't tasted the sweat and the blood. They just don't get it. The war was thousands of miles behind me, but I was in my own private hell."

Peter frowns. He wonders how his experience compares, how much being a superhero is like being a soldier. Even if the sweat and blood and fire and adrenaline are similar, a soldier has none of the protections he has. A soldier doesn't have super strength and healing, and a soldier has to follow orders, even if they may well lead to death. At least Peter gets to decide for himself which risks to take, and when. He's filled suddenly with awe for Sam; just a human, just a soldier with a pair of wings, and yet an Avenger, like him.

"What did you do?" asks Peter quietly.

Sam looks at him. "I changed the story I was telling myself. When I started working for the VA, yeah, I wanted to help others, but what I didn't realize was that I was really helping myself. Telling others they had the power to change their story helped me believe it too. I realized that I didn't have to be alone." He pauses, apparently caught in a memory. "And then I met Steve. If I hadn't changed my story, I never would've let him in. Trusted him."

They're silent for a long moment. Peter finds himself wondering, for the first time, about Sam's life outside the compound. If he gets lonely, too. Everyone he spent the past couple years hiding from the law with is dead, or deep undercover.

Finally, Sam sighs. "All the vets I talked to, everyone I helped; it was the same story. They'd each been through their own traumas, but coming home was the same. Their families—hell, all of society—their memories hadn't been wiped, time hadn't been turned back, there was no crazy sci-fi alternate reality explanation for why no one else could understand, but that doesn't make a difference. What those vets went through was so far removed from the everyday reality they came back to that Afghanistan and Iraq might as well have been another planet. Do you get what I'm saying?"

Peter blinks; realizes he's clenching his hands, releases them. "I think so," he breathes out, unsteadily.

Sam holds his gaze for a long moment. "You're not alone, Peter. But the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, tend to come true. So start there."

Peter squints at him dubiously. It doesn't make much sense to him; he wasn't aware he was telling himself a story at all.

Sam offers a half smile. "Don't worry, it's not an overnight sort of thing, Pete. It takes time to tell a story right."

…

Tony's breathing is soft and rhythmic behind him. One of his arms rests securely over Peter's torso. They're practically spooning.

This is how they sleep now. Tony is still careful not to let their legs get tangled or their hips too close, of course. Everything stays above the waist.

Peter wonders if that might change. People shift in their sleep. Maybe it's only a matter of time before they wake up in a tangle of limbs, or until he feels Tony's heat flush against back and thighs.

The thought makes Peter's face warm, first with want, then shame. It's messed up, Peter knows, that he thinks of the man this way. The one person who makes him feel comfortable and sane; why couldn't Peter just see Tony as a father-figure, like they had talked about on the phone those few weeks ago?

Peter tries to think of a time when he saw Tony like that. He remembers the Q-ship, when he stowed away. It had been the panicked thought of Tony, going in to face the enemy alone, that got Peter stuck to the side of the ship, thanks to the hyper-intuitive Iron Spider suit. It hadn't even been a conscious decision; he just knew that he couldn't leave Tony alone. That wasn't exactly a filial thought, though. And when Dr. Strange had asked if Peter was Tony's "ward"—Peter's denial had been swift, instinctual. It was nothing like that. Not even back then.

Would things be simpler now, better, if it were, though?

Peter sighs. There's no use thinking about that. It's not how things are. Not how they were, and not how they will be in any conceivable future, even if Peter does 'change the story' he's telling himself, or whatever it was Sam was saying. Peter isn't sure what Tony is to him, but he's not his father. He's the man with his arms wrapped around him, head on the pillow inches away, sleeping soundly.

Or, almost soundly. Peter frowns. Now that he's listening, he can hear that Tony's breathing has picked up, and his heartbeat, too. Peter is sure he's still asleep, though.

Gingerly, Peter turns around. He can make out the movement of Tony's eyeballs behind his eyelids. Dreaming.

Peter remembers Tony mentioning bad dreams. But Tony's always slept soundly next to Peter. Tony even told him that he helped. It's been an especial point of pride for him.

Tony's eyebrows furrow. His arm flexes over Peter's side.

"Tony," whispers Peter. He raises a tentative hand to the man's face, brushes back the hair over his ear. It's coarse, flecks of gray peeking through at the roots. Tony's usually more careful about dyeing it, but he's been slipping. In more respects than one; Peter has noticed that the bruises under Tony's eyes are darker than usual, can see them even now. Peter wonders if this is the reason.

"Tony, wake up," Peter urges. He suspects this isn't a conventional nightmare; if Tony is on Titan—Peter's stomach clenches—then he needs to save him.

Peter's fingers trail down the side of Tony's face, rubbing the short hairs of his neat beard. Peter tries not to get lost in the satisfying sensation. "Tony," he repeats, louder.

Two things happen at once: Tony's eyes fly open, wide and wild, and his arm spasms, clutching Peter closer as if on instinct. Peter's heartbeat and breathing mirror Tony's own, rapid and harsh. He can feel the man's breath on his face, inches away.

Tony's eyes flick between Peter's once, twice, three times—down his body, at their position. He sags, but doesn't let Peter go.

"Sorry, Pete," he rasps.

Peter's hand comes to rest on Tony's chest, where Peter knows the scar lies just beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

"It's okay," he breathes. Tony's heartbeat is still rapid beneath his palm. "Was it Titan?"

Tony's muscles tense, almost imperceptibly, but Peter feels it. His eyes fix on a point somewhere over Peter's left ear.

"After. I… couldn't find you." Tony's eyes come back to Peter's. In the dark, his pupils are blown wide enough that Peter feels like he could fall right into them. It's oddly flattering that of all the terrible things Tony could be having nightmares about—being run through by Thanos, watching his friends die in the fight to stop him, losing Pepper—it's Peter who carries that privilege. Even as Peter's chest aches for Tony, the thought fills his belly with perverse warmth.

"I'm here," he whispers.

In response, Tony brings a large hand up to the side of Peter's head, smoothes his hair back. Peter's eyes fall closed at the sensation and he lets out a little sigh. Before he knows it, Tony is tugging him closer, fitting his head snugly under his chin, bringing their fronts nearly flush.

Tony doesn't stop petting his hair. The sensation is nearly overwhelming. Peter is so completely surrounded by Tony, on every side, even  _inside_  as he breathes in the man's scent, soured with a hint of sweat, takes him into his lungs, and everything is warm, warm  _warm_  with his face buried in Tony's shoulder.

Peter's hand slides down to Tony's side. His breath hitches when his fingers graze against skin; Tony's sleep shirt has ridden up around his ribs.

If Tony reacts, Peter can't feel it. He lets his hand come to rest gingerly against his flank. Tony's skin burns against his palm.

He brushes his thumb lightly over Tony's ribs. He has some vague notion in mind of trying to communicate comfort, reassure the man, but Peter's own heart is in his throat, expecting Tony to push him away at any second.

He doesn't. Tony's fingers card steadily through Peter's hair, but otherwise the man doesn't move. If anything, his breathing is slowing, his heartbeat steadying.

Emboldened, Peter drags his hand gently up and down, relishing in the smoothness of Tony's flesh, the firmness of his muscles. He ventures to Tony's back, rubbing small circles, in time with the movements of Tony's hand through his hair.

In spite of the excitement of touching Tony like this, in spite of the pleasant tingling where Tony's fingertips graze his scalp, Peter finds himself being lulled by the soothing twin rhythms of their caresses. He melts into the heat radiating from Tony's body, tension seeping from every joint, leaning his weight further and further into the man. Tony lets it happen; he seems more relaxed, too.

Peter traces lazy patterns on Tony's skin. His fingers splay and contract against the center of his back, fingering the ridges of his spine. Peter thinks he hears Tony's breath catch at that; he does it again, and his ears pick up the slightest rumble of a deep, contented hum in Tony's chest.

Peter sighs and dips his hand further, to the deep sway of Tony's back, fingers brushing the point just before the swell of a buttock begins. Peter is sure he feels Tony's hips shift infinitesimally, back arching unconsciously into the touch.

His hand lands on a hip, covered only partially with the band of Tony's sleep pants, but he doesn't dare linger there. He pushes up his side again, stroking back and forth between the firmness of abdominals and the distinct hardness of ribs. Above him, Tony lets out a long breath through his nose.

Then Tony's hand moves. Instead of combing his hair from front to back, it slides down to his neck and his fingers slot up through Peter's locks against the direction of growth, scratching the back of his skull. Peter barely manages to suppress a full-body shudder, but a frisson of pleasure still shivers down his spine and coils in his stomach. Embarrassingly quickly, he feels his semi grow fully hard in his boxers.

The bridge of Peter's nose is pressed against Tony's collarbone; he wonders absently if Tony can feel the quickening breath from his open mouth, dampening his shirt.

Tony's fingers are relentless in their gentle, methodical scrubbing at the back of his head, sending waves of tingles over his skin. Peter swallows a groan. His hand slips into the few inches of space between their torsos; his fingertips graze the skin around Tony's navel, curl shyly in the thin trail of hair that starts just below it.

Tony's stomach clenches; his hand stills in Peter's hair. Through the fog of pleasure, Peter is just alert enough to catch the renewed harshness of Tony's breathing, the thudding of his heart.

A rush of warmth engulfs Peter from head to foot, curling his toes against the mattress with the realization: he's  _affecting_ Tony. Tony is reacting to his touch the same way that Peter is reacting to him.

Peter's heart knocks almost painfully against his ribcage. He spreads his fingers, brings his hand fully into contact with Tony's abdomen. He feels the muscles flutter under his touch, feels Tony's fingers twitch in his hair.

"Peter."

Tony's voice is hoarse: a deep, scratchy rumble that Peter could listen to say his name in his ear over and over again.

But when Tony speaks again, he sounds pained.

"You should stop that."

Peter freezes, heart still attempting to jump up his throat. He doesn't move his hand, though; he's never gotten this far, never dreamed he could, and Tony let him, he  _let_  him and he's  _reacting_  so some part of him must like this, must want like Peter wants…

He doesn't know where he finds the courage to ask, but instead of an apology, what comes out of his mouth next, with a slight press of his fingers into Tony's stomach, is the whisper: "Maybe I should stop, but do you want me to?"

He hears the small gasp, feels Tony's whole body go tense. It's probably only a second, but it drags on and on for Peter, hyper-aware as he is of Tony's skin on this intimate, vulnerable part of his body that Peter's never touched before, smooth and taut and perfect—until finally, breathed so quietly Peter might have missed it without enhanced hearing, a single word that sounds wrenched up from the gut:

" _No._ "

It's Peter's turn to gasp: a full-body, convulsive affair as wetness seeps from the head of his cock where it's stretching his shorts. He can't see, can only think of one thing; he's never been more turned on, because  _Tony wants this, oh my God oh my God._ His hand splays wider, harder against his skin.

Peter barely hears Tony groan, but he feels the man's hand leave his hair, close firmly around his wrist to stop him from moving lower—and that's probably not intended to send another bolt of heat straight to his groin, but it does.

"Fuck, Peter, I shouldn't have said that, I don't—you should really stop, you—I, I should stop, or, put a pillow between us or something," Tony mutters, sounding almost hysterical.

"B-but, you're—" Peter can't get the words out, can't even put them in order in his head, but he knows, Tony feels this too, feels the same, he has to  _show_  him—

In lieu of words, Peter slides his thigh forward—and feels it.  _It_. Hard, insistent, unmistakably large through the soft fabric of Tony's sleep pants.

Peter feels like he's trapped in the middle of a literal fire, he's burning up, sweating, because  _oh God oh God oh God_  that's for him, Tony is  _hard for him he did that—_

" _Don't_."

The word is choked out, and suddenly the contact is broken, Tony's pulled away, but the hand that was on Peter's wrist is now on his bare thigh, shoving it back, and all Peter really has the mental capacity to think about at the moment is Tony's callused fingertips digging into his flesh, and how he's never going to forget the sensation.

Tony's pushed Peter far enough away to look into his eyes, and Peter dimly registers the panic in the man's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Peter, I didn't mean for that—"

"It's okay," Peter pants, hips shifting restlessly under Tony's grip—just a bit of pressure,  _anything_ —"It's okay, I am too," why can't Tony see that, it's alright, he  _wants_  this he wants wants  _wants_ —

Tony withdraws his hand as if scorched. "It's not okay." His voice is tight. "Peter, I need to go—"

" _No—_ " Peter's hand shoots out to grip Tony's wrist, desperate. A very distant part of him is vaguely aware of how humiliating this is, how intensely mortified he'll probably be when he thinks back on it in the morning, but the greater part of Peter's brain is so entirely consumed by the knowledge that Tony is hard, and Peter's never been closer to what he wants, Tony can't leave now, not yet—

" _Please_ ," he whispers, and only then does he register that his right hand has gone to his groin, pressing subtly. He groans into it, feeling close to tears and it's so pathetic, but why won't Tony just  _touch him_ —

"Pete, you gotta let go, I can't be here—" Tony breaks off suddenly, and Peter opens his eyes—when did he close them?—to see Tony staring down at where his crotch is under the sheet, at the motion of his hand palming himself through his shorts.

"Are you—?" It sounds like Tony is having trouble breathing. Even as hot shame floods through Peter, the intensity of Tony's gaze, trained  _there_ , intent on his slightest motion, fills Peter with another kind of warmth.

"Sorry," he breathes. "Are you—mad?"

Tony's eyes flick up to Peter's, and the air stops in Peter's lungs for a moment. His eyes are as dark as Peter's ever seen them, and full of, full of—

_Hunger._

The revelation comes crashing into place like a ton of bricks dropped right onto Peter's chest.  _Hunger_. That's it. That's what he's seen in Tony's eyes, all this time, the missing piece he could never identify. It's  _hunger_.

"I'm not mad."

Peter can't breathe. He's trying not to rut into his hand, but he can't help squirming his hips, seeking friction, God he's so close and Tony's eyes on him are liquid heat, enveloping him, pooling within him as they drag down his body to look  _there_  again, with rapt attention, as if he could see through the sheet and the shorts, Peter swears he can physically feel his gaze burning his skin oh God—

Tony's tongue wets his lips and Peter nearly loses it. He wants to feel that tongue, on him,  _in_  him, anything—

Tony closes his eyes. "I can't watch this," he groans, almost to himself. He looks back at Peter's face. The hunger is still there, but he appears more focused, conflicted. "I can't be here, I gotta go, I gotta…"

Peter bites his lip, and notes how Tony's eyes pounce on it like prey. His cock throbs, hard. He just needs, needs—

"Tony," he pleads, and sees, in the space of a second, a war waged in Tony's eyes. The hunger gains the upper hand for just long enough that Tony reaches out his free hand towards Peter's head, even as he whispers, "I have to leave…"

His fingers find Peter's hair, and it's like they're coming home. Each one blazes a red hot trail of satisfaction across Peter's scalp, erupting in tingles and sending shockwaves coursing through him.

" _Peter_ …"

Tony's strained voice, that edge of  _hunger_ , is what does it.

Peter sees white. He gasps; his back arches; a deep throb convulses his whole body, and he's spilling into his boxers.

For a few, blissful seconds, he's floating, buoyed up by the echo of Tony whispering his name, the gratifying tug at the roots of his hair, the liquefying warmth blossoming outwards from his deepest core…

And then he opens his eyes.

Tony is staring at him still, but it's all wrong. His eyes aren't hungry anymore, but shocked and strangely shuttered. And he's not touching him; his hand is raised as if to calm a wounded animal or prove himself unarmed.

It takes Peter a moment to make sense of the picture; and then he comes crashing back to reality.

He can't move. Can't breathe. He just—did he just—oh God.

The seconds tick past in heavy silence, and then Tony turns away. As though he can't look at Peter any longer. The thought slices through Peter's ribs like a knife.

Slowly, Tony rises from the bed, walks over to a dresser, and starts rummaging through a drawer. Peter watches in confused apprehension.

Tony returns holding a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. He extends his arm, holding them out to Peter, but he still won't look at him.

"Here," he says, and his voice is hoarse, like he hasn't spoken in years. "You'll need to, clean up—" he gestures vaguely at the bathroom—"Here."

Peter stares at the pajama pants for a moment, then back at Tony. His chest is tight. He needs Tony to look at him, he needs to apologize—

"Take them," Tony insists, shuffling closer without getting back on the bed. He's looking towards Peter now, but not at his face. His expression is unreadable.

Trembling, Peter reaches up to grasp the soft garment. Tony lets go like it's on fire, turns away again.

Wordlessly, Peter pulls himself off the other side of the bed and pads into the bathroom, registering for the first time just how disgusting the mess in his boxers feels. He wants to cry from humiliation.

But he doesn't. He manages not to, as he wipes himself down, balls up the boxers and tosses them into a corner with a mental note to grab them later, and pulls on Tony's flannel pants, pulling the drawstring as tight as it will go to keep them on his hips. The hems pool around his feet, making him feel small, and young, and stupid.

But Peter doesn't cry, as he washes his hands and splashes his face, looks at his pale, shiny face in the mirror, his red-rimmed eyes. He squeezes them shut, remembering— _but you're_ —the outline of Tony's  _cock_ , pressing against his thigh—and  _I'm not mad_  and Tony's eyes and  _hunger—_

Peter grips the edge of the counter. He doesn't understand how it ended up like this. The look on Tony's face after. Peter lost control, and he can never take it back. And he can't stay in this bathroom forever.

Peter reenters the bedroom in trepidation. Tony hasn't turned on any lights, but Peter's eyes readjust to the dimness almost immediately to find Tony standing at the wide window, peering out at the grounds awash in moonlight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He turns as Peter walks towards him, finally looking at Peter's face; but his own is cast in shadows too deep for Peter to make out his eyes in detail. Peter thinks of the hunger he saw there and shivers, stops several feet away.

Tony just stares at him. Peter's heart hammers in his chest. There's a lump in his throat. He has to say it, it's now or never.

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't." The single, insistent word is out before Peter can even finish. "You don't apologize for this." Tony's voice is oddly hollow. Peter really wishes he could see Tony's eyes better. "This isn't your fault." It sounds almost mechanical, rehearsed.

Peter tenses; he should have seen this coming. Of course Tony would blame himself, especially if— _I'm not mad._  His hard cock. Hungry eyes: they all flash through Peter's mind, nearly overwhelming.

But of course Tony didn't mean for any of it to happen, even if he felt… some sort of way. He still tried to stop it:  _Don't. I'm sorry, Peter. I can't be here._  It only happened because Peter pushed. Again.

Peter presses his nails into his palms. He's sure he's lost the man's trust, now. He's sure he'll never be allowed to get close again—but Peter can't let Tony blame himself. He takes a deep breath.

"I… didn't mean to put you in that position," he says, as steadily as he can muster. "It won't happen again," he adds softly.

He waits, can see Tony's mouth twitch, his throat working. Finally, he turns away.

"We'll talk about it in the morning." Still that indecipherable, stilted tone. "Just," Tony gestures towards the bed, "try to get some rest."

Dread sinks like a stone in Peter's gut. "But—"

"No buts. Sleep." Tony strides towards the doorway.

"What about you?" Peter's voice comes out embarrassingly high.

Tony hesitates, but doesn't turn around. "Don't worry about me, Pete." At last, his voice betrays feeling—but it's only weariness. "I'm just… I've got some things to finish up in the lab." And with that, the man disappears into the adjacent room. A moment later, Peter hears the suite door open and close.

Peter stands still for a long moment. His legs feel oddly weak; he stumbles to the bed, collapses onto it. Stares at the ceiling.

Finally, Peter cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments feed my soul. They fuel me. They bring me joy like nothing else. Seriously, you guys rock and I can’t wait to hear what you think of this chap. Apologies for the angst; but you knew what you signed up for, right? Plenty more where that came from—but also more of that sexual tension finally reaching the breaking point, I promise. Thank you so so much for your ongoing support and patience! Your words are what make this all worth it.


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